


As We Fall

by subtext-is-my-division (Quill_Angel)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Dubious Consent, Gender Issues, Gender Roles, Growing Up, Heart Break, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mentions of Rape, Mild BDSM, Omega Sherlock, Omegaverse, PWP, Platonic bed sharing, Rough Sex, Self Esteem Issues, Substance Abuse, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Uni!lock, Unsafe Sex, followed by non platonic bed sharing, mild bondage, teen!lock, unhealthy relationship, welcome to the world of questionable biology, why is there so much porn?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2018-04-06 23:53:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4241433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_Angel/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The fact of his pulse,</em>
  <br/>
  <em> the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desire,</em>
  <br/>
  <em> not to disturb the air around him.</em>
  <br/>
  <em> Everyone could see the way his muscles worked,</em>
  <br/>
  <em> the way we look like animals,</em>
  <br/>
  <em> his skin barely keeping him inside.</em>
  <br/>
  <em> I wanted to take him home</em>
  <br/>
  <em> and rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his</em>
  <br/>
  <em> I wanted to be wanted and he was</em>
  <br/>
  <em> very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving.</em>
  <br/>
  <em> You could drown in those eyes, I said." </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <em>-Richard Siken, Little Beast </em></p><p> <br/>Sherlock can understand the poetry of it. Soul mates, eternal love, the gaps between your fingers where another's will fit in perfectly.<br/>Such things, however, are meant for people who are whole and unbroken.<br/> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ardebit

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY GUYS I HONESTLY DON'T KNOW WHAT I AM DOING.
> 
> So I am finally dipping my toe into the Omegaverse like I have wanted to do for AGES, since my other two fics are almost over. I have a plot thought out for this and everything, so I'm not flailing around and writing whatever pops into my head. (well, mostly) PLEASE tell me what you think, because I've never written an omegafic before and I hope I do it right. Well, in any case, the best part about this trope is that there are LITERALLY NO RULES YAY.
> 
> Beware of dubious consent. I mean seriously. Epically dubious consent. And biology issues. Gender roles. (like literally made up biology, I kid you not.) Warnings will be added for each chapter. Please read them carefully before you continue. PM me if you have any questions. :)
> 
> Not beta-ed as of now because I was too lazy.
> 
> Also, no idea when this fic will be updated. I'll try to be as regular as possible but I've got college starting up and I will be extremely busy but I WILL NOT LEAVE THIS FIC HANGING.

 

 

 

 

> I will be easy company; the blur  
>  Of what I longed for once will fade to space.  
>  No thought that could discomfort you will stir.  
>  My eyes will painlessly survey your face. 
> 
> \- Vikram Seth, _Promise_
> 
>  

 

 

 

Part One: my hands no longer an afterthought

 

 

 It's the utter weakness of it that Sherlock detests, most of all. The knowledge, or the lack of. It is the fact that he is being stripped of his claim over his own body while 'biological imperative' stamps its ugly bruises across skin that should be his and his alone. He hates the way his mind is shattered to pieces, how he is reduced to pure instinct, bands that tighten their grip across his body and flop him down, gasping like a giant fish caught in a net of self loathing.

_Heatwetwet, wantwantneedneed, please please please._

A writhing, begging mess, everyone else's to touch and to claim and to fuck.

It's who he is, it's how he's been made, and this is what he hates most of all. He could rip apart his own skin, tear his own hair off, and yet, and yet he will remain the same, nothing will change. He's done it before, he remembers, when he was desperate and frustrated, weeping and pleading for something that he knows he  _doesn't want,_ not really, he's done it; traced jagged red lines into pale, unblemished skin, pitying himself, hating himself, wanting to die.

It would be better, he always thinks, to die. If only he could. If only he could close his eyes and tell his body,  _that's it, I'm done, I don't want this._ But this, this fucking  _thing,_ it is already far gone beyond his control, spinning out of his reach, burning and burning and making him scream because this is a thirst that he must quench and yet he hates every moment of it.

 _But it's my body,_ he defends helplessly.

According to the rest of the world, it isn't, not  _really._

* * *

 

Hungry eyes follow him, wherever he goes. Lewd, intent gazes that seem to burn holes into his skin when he walks down the street, a shop, the fucking bus stand.

It never stops.

Maybe they're waiting, he thinks. They're waiting for me to get down on my knees and beg them to fuck me. Take me. They know I will, because I can't help it. And he knows, deep down, in the pit of his stomach, that when it happens to him, he'll do whatever they want him to. He won't even think twice. Instinct, pure, primal, basic instinct will have him so far beyond the reach of his intellectual capacity that his legs will spread like an automatic reaction. Flick the switch, and watch the omega squirm.

It must be so much fun for them, he thinks. To watch him struggle. What is it like, on the other side of the wall? That privileged side of humanity where you can walk without the thought nagging at the back of your head that this respite is just a fleeting whisper before the fire consumes you again, burns you until you are charred to a crisp, nothing but a pile of ashes.

He is smart, he reminds himself. He is smarter than the whole lot of them combined. He can pick them apart in seconds, ravage their so called sense of self-respect and dignity, rattle their propriety until they are nothing but a whimpering mess. I can do it, he tells himself. He would, if he wanted, watch  _them_ try to stumble and pick up the pieces, what then? How does it feel  _then_?

This venom, this acid, the bitterness of the  _unfairness_ of it all, it eats away at him like a plague. It's not healthy, he tells himself, to be jealous of normal, boring people.

But then, maybe it's not so bad, being normal.

Being different is so exhausting.

* * *

 

The first time it happens, he is barely fifteen.

His limbs have always felt too long on his body, even more so now. His skin feels spread over his bones, thin membrane stretched over his skeleton that could rip at any moment. It would be interesting to see what his body is made of. He knows the science of it, blood and marrow and muscle. Maybe there's something more. Something special. Sherlock has always thought he was better, because he was smarter than everyone else.

Victor had moved in next door barely four months ago, male alpha, and Sherlock was curious. Victor didn't think he was weird. When Sherlock told him that he was conducting an experiment on the effects of citric acid on decomposing pig feet, Victor laughed and ruffled his hair and told him that he was clever. It was nice, hearing that. Someone telling him he was clever. He tried to get people to say it when he was younger. Tried to impress them. He realised too late that broken bones weren't worth the price.

Mummy never said that, she was always tired and exasperated, staying at home, cooking, cleaning. She didn't really need to, Sherlock wanted to tell her. He knows they're wealthy, she could ask the kitchen staff.

" _Mother, you are being illogical. We have two cooks who are capable of cooking a decent meal, I fail to see why you must take on the task yourself."_

" _It's what an omega does, dear. She looks after her family._ "

What a horrible thing, Sherlock thought. Being reduced to a caretaker because of what lies between your legs.

Victor is seventeen. He wants to study Chemistry at Oxford next year. Sherlock thinks this is a vastly dull thing to do.

"How  _tedious,_ " he informs him, still managing to lift his chin disdainfully even though he is lying flat on his back in Victor's garden. They're supposed to be watching the clouds. It's perfectly boring, but Victor is the only person Sherlock has ever spoken to in such a long time and he doesn't want to offend him by telling him that.

"It'll be interesting," Victor defends. Sherlock considers his statement dubiously.

"It will be  _boring,_ " he corrects after a while. Victor thinks for a moment. The sunlight catches in his copper coloured hair.

"I'll just be two years ahead of you, you could study it too, after you graduate," he advises.

Sherlock doesn't know why, but he likes this idea.

"Studying chemistry wouldn't be so bad," he decides.

They lie in silence then, Sherlock composing a piece of music in his head because he likes the weather now, likes the way the cool wind ruffles his hair, the way it plays across his skin. It eases the stiffness of his body, the way his flesh seems to be stretched too tight. Like a string pulled taunt across an instrument. The sound is disjointed if you play it then, it doesn't come out right.

Sherlock hasn't come out too right, either.

At least Victor doesn't call him weird.

It happens suddenly that day, insidious in its ferocity. One moment Sherlock is almost calm and relaxed, breathing summery air while Victor asks him questions time to time, like what he thinks about that murder that happened in Bristol yesterday, or whether he found out how much time it takes for saliva to coagulate after death. The next moment he feels hot, too hot, far too hot.

His skin is burning. Is he burning? Fuck, he must be. Sherlock's body gives an odd sort of spasm, and he is suddenly far too aware of everything. There is sweat trickling down his neck, dampness on his forehead, his hairline, burning heat everywhere. His clothes, fuck his clothes, too much, everything is too much.

He gasps, sitting up, suddenly on his fours, his body heaving. Something is wrong, something is very wrong, he thinks, why are my pants wet, why, what is it, oh— _fuck._ He needs—he needs, needs something—his hand almost instinctively goes to his crotch, it would feel better, if he could just— _fuck,_ his body jerks again. What is this  _smell,_ oh my god, want it, want it, crap—Victor—

Victor sits up in a second, Sherlock can't see him, he is dimly aware that his palms and knees are against the grass, his arse raised in the air, and this position, it feels right, something, he needs, he needs,  _oh god,_ his hand is still somewhere at his crotch, and he jerks against it,  _oh bloody hell_ , it sends a spasm of electricity arching down his spine, he's hard, so hard, he's never been this hard before—

"Sherlock—oh  _fuck,_ " Victor is inches away from him, he can smell the thick, heady scent of alpha pheromones rising from his skin in response to his spreading heat, and Sherlock  _wants,_ wants him against him, he smells so fucking  _good,_ he smells like something Sherlock should have inside of him, rubbing up against him, smearing his scent all over him, claiming him. That sounds good, so damn good, Victor should just grab him—and  _oh—_ there is a dull ache somewhere down below, he's barely aware of it, just this horrible burning, and he  _knows,_ he knows that if Victor just, if he could  _just,_ he'd feel so much better.

Victor does, he jerks, reaches out with his hand and grabs his elbow, making Sherlock lose his balance as his chin hit the grass hard, it must have hurt but Sherlock barely notices it. In a second Victor has his arm around his stomach and Sherlock is in his lap between spread thighs, and Victor is sniffing at his neck, fingers digging into his hip painfully. Sherlock whines, he can feel something hard against his arse,  _erection, cock, knot, good, need it, need it, please, yes._

"Fucking,  _fuck,_ Sherlock, you're, god,  _fuck,_ mine, mine," Victor growls, and Sherlock whimpers, a helpless, pathetic sound, the edges of his vision sizzling, red hot, fire, burning, hot,  _hot;_ he grinds his arse against Victor desperately, only aware of this aching, blinding need to have Victor inside him, pushing, thrusting- _fuck, yes,_ that's what he needs right now; he throws his head back against Victor's shoulder, exposing his throat, submitting himself, gasping. Victor's lips are around the shell of his ear, sucking, his cock rubbing frantically against his backside, his hand sliding down his thigh, the denim sopping wet and sticking to his skin. It should be uncomfortable, it must be,  _damn,_ but he doesn't think of it—why isn't Victor inside him, yet? He should be slamming into him, ripping off his clothes,  _oh god_ these clothes, why hadn't he realised before? They are chaffing against his skin, hot, too hot—

And then he feels it, the slice of Victor's teeth against his neck, and it all slams into painful focus then;  _teeth, bite, bond, wait, fuck no, no no no_ —

"Get  _off,"_ he screams, panic flaring in his chest, white-hot arousal still churning between his legs, flames licking his entire body, it's so confusing, he wants it, wants Victor inside him  _fuck,_ but, no, no, he doesn't—what's going on? What is happening to his body? He's confused, he's so confused, and Victor is reaching for the waistband of his jeans, the touch of his fingers against the fevered bare skin of his hips making him keen like a puppy, a wailing, desperate noise clawing out of his throat while his legs spread wantonly of their own accord. "No, no, I—can't, Victor—don't, please," he gasps, Victor's hand is slipping under his jeans,  _oh god—_

"You smell, damn it, so good,  _so good,_ I need to, bloody hell, Sherlock, you never—never told me, I—I'll knot you, fuck, I'll knot you  _right here,_ mount you like you want it, you sweet little— _fuck—"_

Shouts. Someone is shouting, saying something, Sherlock can't hear what they're saying. Rosewater and wildflower mixing with the heavy peach scent of alpha, who is it? Someone, anyone, could take Victor off of him—but, wait, no, no, he wants Victor, wants Victor to pin him down and spread over him and fuck him right here, doesn't he? Oh  _god,_ it hurts now, it hurts, he's burning up, someone make it stop, make it stop,  _please,_ can't—

"Victor,  _Victor,_ stop!" someone is shouting, a female voice, and Victor is wrenched away from him, the cloying heat gone, and Sherlock whines, he actually  _whines,_ because why did they do that, why,  _why,_ he needed him, needed his knot inside of him— _god,_ yes. He falls limply back, as if the only thing holding him upright were Victor's tanned, sinewy arms. Grass against his back, the bleached blue of the sky above him. Sherlock gasps, another horrible seizure-like  _thing_ rocking his entire body, he grinds against the grass, should feel something,  _please oh god,_ he's crying, he registers faintly, sobbing like a baby. There is wetness against his cheeks. The water should evaporate, because his skin is burning hot, it must be.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, get up, get  _up,_ Dad! Dad get Victor  _out,_ " a face swims in front of his vision. Tanned skin, copper hair like Victor. His sister, he thinks, cousin? Someone, but the scent is wrong—omega, not alpha. She's not what he needs right now. But she touches him anyway, wraps her arms around his waist and hauls him up. She's strong, she has him standing upright. Sherlock falls against her side, seemingly incapable of supporting his own weight. His head lolls against her shoulder. She wraps her arm around his waist, and they move. "Lock the gate, what is  _wrong_ with you-oi,  _fuck off!_ " she shouts at someone behind her.

"I-I can't, don't want—something else," he babbles something incoherently. He doesn't remember. His jeans are cold and sticky, damp, something is still running down his thighs, slippery, warm. The heated edge of his mind clears somewhat, sanity trying to make its pathetic return. Victor's sister is opening a door, and he feels cool air against his damp forehead. He shivers, his legs are freezing because of the wetness.

"It's fine, everything's fine," she tries to soothe him, but  _how_ can she soothe him like this, he knows what he needs and he needs it  _now,_ because  _oh god—_

"Fuck," he moans, clawing at his abdomen, where a confusing mix of pain and gut-wrenching need sends another spasm rocking his body. It's so bewildering, he remembers thinking, everything is so bewildering. "Please," he hears himself begging. What is he begging for? Someone to fuck him, probably. He knows it will make him better. So certain. A knot inside him and this-this  _desire,_ this writhing, messy  _want_ will subside. Logic, he reminds himself. It's pure, cold, logic.

"Shhh," she soothes again, and Sherlock wants to claw her eyes out. He might have tried, he doesn't remember. She pushes him inside a room, and there is something soft under his bottom now, springy and light. Bed. Cotton. The clean scent of lemon freshener, her honey-rose fragrance merging with it. Pleasant, but wrong,  _wrong,_ not what he wants.

"What's happening?" he rasps. "I can't—can't be happening. Don't want it, oh  _fuck,_ make it stop, can you make it stop?" he curls his fingers into his sweat-drenched hair, pulls.

"I'm sorry," she tells him, the bright blue of her eyes burning into his own. She sounds genuinely apologetic. "I can't. I'll, Sherlock? Listen. I'll get your brother, he'll take you home. Keep you safe, with your parents. I'm sorry about that, Victor didn't—he didn't mean to, I promise."

"I don't  _care,_ " he whinges. "I just—just  _want—_ fuck this, fuck you," he falls back against the cool sheets, curling into himself, trying to save himself from the heat burning his flesh away. "I don't want this," he whispers, to himself or to her, he doesn't know.

When Sherlock thought he was something special, this isn't what he had in mind.

Somewhere, he thinks, the universe is laughing at him.

* * *

 

He tried to look at himself, he remembers. He wants to see what he looks like, because it feels as if his skin has been ripped off and replaced with something new and unfamiliar, Sherlock runs his fingers down his body, between his legs where it is wet and slippery, since no one else will touch him, right now, even though he begs. He remembers begging, most of all. Sobbing. Sherlock has never cried before, but this time he is reduced to whimpering mess of tears and snot and twisting need. He hates it, he hates it, hates  _himself._

It's so hard getting up from the bed, exhaustion has turned his muscles to lead. When he reaches the mirror, the face staring back frightens him. His eyes are wild and feral, eclipsed by black, only a thin ring of grey-blue-green visible behind his enlarged pupils. His hair is insane and tangled, sticking to his damp forehead, sweaty curls plastered to his nape. His cheeks are pink and flushed from fever and his lips are chapped because of how much he has been biting them. The biting helps, helps him from crying out or moaning. It's pitiful, he thinks,  _he_ is pitiful, a pathetic, sopping thing that can't even control its own impulses.

Sherlock wills his mind to function again, but another contraction rips through his body and he ends up keening and writhing on the floor instead.

* * *

 

"It can be a confusing time, your first heat," the beta doctor explains. Sherlock wants to throw a vase at him. What the fuck does  _he_ know? Instead he chooses to pin him down with his hostile gaze and make him aware of how much Sherlock detests him.

"But it will get better," he reassures him. Runs his hand through close-cropped black hair and levels him with a steady green gaze. Sherlock hates him. "The intensity should decrease by your next time, over time it will stabilize, and you'll be able to control it somewhat." He smiles at him, as if everything is alright, as if Sherlock's life hasn't been turned upside down and shaken of its contents.

"I'm not supposed to control it, though am I," Sherlock counters, allowing the bitterness to creep into his voice. "Because if I could control it then I wouldn't need an alpha to knot me, and then what good would I be, hmm?" he snarls out the last bit, and the doctor flinches.

"Sherlock," Mycroft warns from where he is leaning against the door, surveying the proceedings with detached interest. Sherlock ignores him. The doctor ignores Sherlock.

"I'll write out a prescription for you, these tablets will help with the cramps," he explains, writing down hurriedly on a slip of paper. "Vitamins and supplements, you'll be taking these for about a year—" he drones on and on, Sherlock blocks him out. He doesn't care. Instead he stares outside where rain is pattering steadily against the window.

The door is shut and the doctor leaves. Sherlock is still staring outside, knees brought up to his chin, arms wrapped around his shins. He feels the bed dip as Mycroft sits next to him, his fruity citrus scent wafting up his suddenly far more sensitive nose.

"How do you feel?" he asks.

"Like I've been pounded by a meat cleaver," Sherlock says immediately.

"Poetic," Mycroft observes, and there is nothing except the sound of the rain outside, the steady  _drip-drip-drip_ of it on the leaves. Mycroft says nothing, because perhaps there is nothing to say. He came in, a few times, never for more than a minute, fortunately never to the sight of Sherlock humping the mattress. But he never stayed. Being his brother, he wasn't consumed by the all-encompassing desire to fuck him, but it still made him uncomfortable in his presence in a way that he had never been before.

Sherlock hates change.

"You'll be fine," Mycroft says, breaking the silence. "It's not the end of the world, Sherlock, you will still do the things you do, say the things you say."

Sherlock laughs; a harsh, bitter sound. "You don't even believe that yourself," he scoffs.

"I believe that you won't let something as mundane as biology dictate your life." His fingers drum against his knee.

It's true, Sherlock knows, and an oddly flattering thing for Mycroft to say. But somehow Sherlock can't shake the terrible feeling that the entire universe is tipping on its axis.

"And yet it will," he says, his voice surprisingly even, although he feels the urge to scream and rage and shout. "They won't even notice my brain anymore, it barely matters that I'm more clever than every single one of them. I'm just—just—I don't even know what I am." The idiotic sentiment of the last bit, lashed out in bitterness, frustrates him. Sherlock could claw his eyes out.

"You'll do what you want to do," Mycroft insists. "I'll make sure nobody stops you." Before Sherlock can think of a way to respond to that statement, Mycroft sweeps out the door.

* * *

 

Victor comes a few days after his heat is over.

Sherlock can smell him from upstairs, from where he is bent over the nitric solution, pipette still between fingers. His scent assaults his nose and Sherlock drops the pipette, gripping the edge of his table, hard, until his knuckles turn white.

It isn't arousal,  _god,_ not anymore, it's shame.

He feels his cheek heat up with the memory, can hear the sounds of his own whimpers and groans in his ear, the ghost of Victor's mouth against his neck. He doesn't want to see him, doesn't want to be reminded of his own inability, his weakness.

He can hear shouting down below, and curiosity gets the better of him. He opens the door, the metal of the doorknob cold against his fingers. He opens it just a crack, so he can listen to the conversation. He has to strain his ears a bit, no one seems to be shouting anymore.

-"learnt  _anything_ in school, Victor? You're hardly a child anymore, I'm sure you're aware of what you're supposed to do in this kind of a situation." Mycroft's voice, firm, cool, polite, cutting through formality like a shard of ice.

"Mycroft, you  _know_ how it is, you can't expect him to—" his mother's voice.

-"I can expect him to restrain himself from manhandling my brother," Mycroft spits out. "Do you think father would do that, grab an omega that was vulnerable and attempt to rape—"

"I wasn't trying to  _rape_ him, the fuck is—"

" _Language,_ Mr. Trevor, or I will escort you out of this house myself."

"I had no idea, you know how it is, you know what happens, Mr. Holmes. I'm just here to apologise, —"

"What I  _know,_ " Mycroft cuts in, "Is that I can control myself long enough, at least, to get away from him, like any  _mature_ young alpha your age would do, and tell someone who would  _take care_ of him."

Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes through his nose, the words running over and over in his head. That's it, he thinks, they're already convinced that I can't take care of myself, that I need someone to look after me. Vulnerable. Weak. Helpless.

"—realise it's no excuse, I agree, but at least he's apologising, I think it's only fair to allow him to go, Mycroft. Sherlock wouldn't appreciate—"

"Sherlock would appreciate not having to see him after he attempted to do what he did, mother. But very well. Sherlock is not a child, I'm not going to decide who he can or cannot see. Go, and if he doesn't want to talk to you, turn around and leave or I will have someone escort you out."

He hears mumbled thanks, and shuts the door hurriedly. Listens to the sound of footsteps coming up. His stomach churns uncomfortably. He doesn't want to look at him, he thinks, not because he hates him, but because he will hate  _himself_  more if he does.

Mycroft would be one of the very few people to blame Victor for what he did, and he barely did anything at all. But Sherlock shudders when he thinks of what might have happened if his sister hadn't pulled him off.

Knock against the door, Victor's scent; cherries and something like wood. "Sherlock." He doesn't sound like someone particularly remorseful, Sherlock thinks, he sounds like someone who believes himself to be carrying out a great service.

Sherlock's fingers still against the metal. It would be a sign of weakness if he didn't open the door, as if he was ashamed to look at Victor, as if this was somehow his fault.

"Sherlock," Victor calls again, his voice sounding weary.

He opens the door then, and meets his eyes almost defiantly. It's difficult, it feels like a physical thing. But he does it. Victor has always been an inch or two taller than him, he stares down at him, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow in question. Victor's nostrils flare, his pupils dilate only the slightest—Sherlock steps back, to put some distance between them. He doesn't want Victor to think that he is anything near the dripping mess he was a week ago. He is in control of his body now, his mind, if he touches him, Sherlock will punch him, he will.

"Can I come in?" he asks.

Sherlock makes a gesture towards the room, Victor steps in and closes the door behind him. It makes Sherlock uncomfortable, makes the hair at the back of his neck prickle. He says nothing.

Victor raises his head a bit and sniffs the air discretely. His gaze drops back to Sherlock and his eyes rake his body, not slowly or salaciously, but still in a way that makes Sherlock feel oddly exposed, like he is a science experiment laid out for poking and prodding. Victor has never looked at him like this before, like he's something that should be his.

"You smell, god, you smell different," Victor states, running a hand through his copper hair. He's wearing a blue shirt and jeans that lie low on his hips. Sherlock used to think Victor was aesthetically pleasing, he'd wonder fleetingly if his mouth was as soft as it looked. Now he wants nothing more than to back away from him, to flee.

"Glad you noticed," Sherlock says stiffly.

The corner of Victor's mouth twitches. " _Good,_ " he clarifies, as if Sherlock is an idiot. "You smell good. Better."

"I smell like something you'd like to fuck," Sherlock spits out, before he can stop himself. But he doesn't regret it.

Victor raises his eyebrows. "I—well." He clears his throat uncomfortably. "You can hardly blame me for that, I mean—you don't know, Sherlock, you don't know what it was like."

Sherlock represses the urge to slap him and instead he snorts disdainfully. " _I_ don't know what it was like?" he snaps. "I was the one going through heat,  _I_ was the one reduced to a slavering mess at your feet, and you think  _I_ don't know," Sherlock doesn't realise he's come closer to Victor , in his frustration. Doesn't realise until Victor's face is a centimetre away and then he tries to step back in panic, but Victor's fingers encircle his wrist and Sherlock stills.

"It's hard, isn't it?" he asks, his voice soft. "I know, my sister goes through it to." He smiles at him, a pitying smile that Sherlock wants to claw off. "But, you know, I could—I mean, if you wanted me to, I could help you through it. It'll feel better, I promise."

"Get your hands off me." His voice is cold, jagged, like a piece of ice.

Victor leans forward until his nose is in his hair, and he inhales. "When it happens again, you'll come to me anyway, begging for a knot. It happens, you don't have to feel—"

That's when Sherlock raises his elbow and slams it into his face. Victor's fingers fall from his wrist and instead he doubles over, clutching at his nose. Sherlock steps back, rubbing at his arm unconsciously, as if to rid himself of Victor's scent all over him, clinging to his skin like a disease.

"Sherlock, what—" he says, voice muffled against his hand. "I'm only—"

"Get out of my room," Sherlock orders him, his voice steady, looking down at him, wishing for all the world that he would just vanish and leave him alone.

"I—"

" _Out."_

Victor leaves, and Sherlock feels like he's lost something important, like he's saying goodbye to too many things at once.

* * *

 

Mycroft comes in a few minutes later. He doesn't knock, he never knocks, the world would end before Mycroft decided to knock.

He comes in to the sight of Sherlock throwing a half-empty mug of cold tea against the wall. The pale blue ceramic splinters, light brown liquid staining the cream of the wall.

"Sherlock," he says wearily. The tone of it grates Sherlock's nerves. He's not a wounded animal, not a child that needs to be coddled. He is a person.

"You're wrong," he says, and he's not sure who he's even speaking to anymore. His voice is shaking, he is shaking, tremors running through his body that threaten to overwhelm him. "Everything changes."


	2. Autumnus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As far as first kisses go, all Sherlock is aware of is that it is too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for extremely dubious consent, and almost (but not quite) underage sex. Like don't even look for consent. You won't find it.
> 
> Reviews are balm to my tortured writer's soul.
> 
> I'm sorry for this chapter. See you all in in hell. *cheery wave*

 

 

> The man on top of you is teaching you how to hate, sees you
> 
> As a piece of real estate
> 
> Just another fallow field lying underneath him
> 
> Like a sacrifice
> 
> He's turning your back into a table so he doesn't have to
> 
> Eat off the floor, so he can get comfortable,
> 
> Pushing against you until he fits, until he's made a place for himself inside you-
> 
> The clock ticks from five to six. Kissing degenerates into biting.
> 
> So you get another kidney punch, a little blood in your urine.
> 
> It isn't over yet. It's just begun.
> 
> -Richard Siken

 

 

 

 

 

 

School is a nightmare.

Sherlock has never pined so much for that mask of obscurity, the invisible wall that divided him from everyone else. It used to hurt, he remembers. An odd twinge in his chest from time to time when he realised that he was never going to be like the rest of them. But then it became a part of him, that loneliness, and Sherlock learnt to become numb to it.

Now he longs for it, more than ever. Because now he walks down the hallways and they all lift their gazes and they  _know._ They know what he is, can smell it on him from miles away. They treat him differently now. Like he's someone who needs to be protected, someone who can't take care of himself. They keep  _touching_ him all the time, running their hands over him like they are  _entitled_ to his body.

He's forced to take that stupid, obligatory Omega Studies class, where he's forced to sit with the other omega students that the school has. They all look at him oddly, a mixture of pity and a dejected  _welcome to the club._

He's taught that he should feel special, because statistics and percentages make him so.

Thirty five percent. Just a number, Sherlock tells himself.

He's important, a coveted member of society, his biology makes him valuable, like a diamond in dirt. Naturally one of the most important things he's taught is that in future, he will bear children, raise pups, keep the population growing.

"Is this supposed to make me feel better?" Sherlock asks one day. He's sitting in the farthest end of the classroom, in the corner, next to the window. He can't bear to sit next to the others, they smell too much like himself, it gets to you, after a while.

Ms. Pewett squints her eyes to look at him, fixing her glasses. She realises it's Sherlock and gives a great, big weary sigh as if he's the most difficult thing to happen to her today.

"Could you repeat yourself, Mr. Holmes?" she asks him, leaning against the desk in a resigned manner.

"I asked you, is that supposed to make me feel better? The fact that I'm  _special_ and  _important_?" He leans back on his heels, arms crossed over his chest, his hair flops into his eyes. The others look at him. The one who has a black dog clears her throat uncomfortably.

"It is every omega's duty—" Ms. Pewett begins her memorised speech but Sherlock scoffs.

"Oh  _please_ ," he drawls. "This class is pathetic. You're pathetic. We all are. I'm not special, or important. I'm a fucking piece of meat, a machine that's supposed to churn out a child as soon as I reach sexual maturity."

"Mr. Holmes—" Ms Pewett starts in an alarmed tone, her eyes going wide. Sherlock must be breaking so many rules now, crossing so many boundaries. The knowledge of it sends a pleased shiver down his spine.

"You're only telling me what I already know. I should be thankful, I should be grateful," he laughs. Tony Brownstone two rows ahead of him smirks at his desk.

"I'm not," Sherlock says with finality. "And neither are you. Look at yourself. You go home early on Mondays and Thursdays, pick up your children from day care. One of them is a beta,  _hmm,_ lucky girl, oh yes, of course she's a girl, I can smell her on you, and an alpha—yes? No? Don't lie, it's clear as a book. Your mate, she's one of those liberal alphas, she tells you she'll do her share of the housework. That's a lie, and you know it. You do the shopping every morning, I see it when you park your car. You work extra on every other day of the week because you're telling yourself you're contributing to your family, your mate lets you work and you're taking advantage of that, good for you, but you don't  _need_ to, not really, she works enough for the both of you, look at the clothes you're wearing. You studied hard enough to be a doctor, you might have specialised in omega care, but that's alright—you teach biology to the sixth years, of course you did—but in the end, it didn't get you anywhere, did it, look at you now." Sherlock's chair comes back to the ground with a hard  _plonk._ He takes a deep breath. The class is still.

"Get out of my class," Pewett says, her voice quiet, the edges of it lined with steel and something unsteady. Her hand is cupped over the edge of the desk, hard. Sherlock can see the blood rush from her flesh, leaving it pale.

"Glad to, it's not like I'm learning anything new," Sherlock replies, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. The chair scrapes against the floor when he brushes past it. He feels the weight of everyone's gaze as he sweeps out the room.

He keeps walking down the corridor, barely aware of where he's going. Someone calls him, he doesn't care, he just walks, until he's outside in the grounds. He drops his bag to the ground, it makes a dull sound when it hits the grass. He leans his back against a tree and tilts his head upwards, inhaling the scent of autumn.

It is just as difficult to breathe.

He slides against the bark until he's sitting, brings his knees up to his chest. The wood scrapes his back, it's slightly uncomfortable, and he feels cold. His jumper is tied around his waist but Sherlock ignores it, instead he leans his forehead against his knees and tries to breathe. He wants to vanish, wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole, leaving no evidence of his existence.

He can hear the sound of leaves crunching underfoot, someone is approaching. He lifts his head and sniffs the air; alpha, obviously. His fingers claw into the fabric of his trousers and his body tenses, preparing to fight. It's not the usual reaction of an omega to an alpha, he supposes. But this time Sherlock wants to be anything but usual.

"Holmes?" a male voice calls. Sherlock screws his eyes shut and exhales. Imbecile, he thinks. If he really wants to find me he might as well use his nose instead of lumbering around like an idiot.

"Oh, there you are," something that smells annoyingly like chocolate wafts up his nostrils. Sherlock doesn't look up, choosing to stare at the tree in front of him, noting the swirls and patterns in the bark, the odd shape of the leaves.

"You shouldn't be here alone," he continues, as if he honestly thinks Sherlock is listening. "It's cold, Fitzpatrick told me to get you back inside."

Sherlock immediately turns to him, lifting his head up so he can look into his eyes. He's on the ground, and Benjamin Turner is looking down at him. The tradition of it sends a prickly shade of shame down his spine, but Sherlock doesn't need to be on his feet to intimidate him. "Fitzpatrick said no such thing to you," he spits, levelling him with a cool glare. Benjamin looks back, his lips slightly parted, one eyebrow raised in response to Sherlock's acidic reply.

"I—"

"Do you think I don't know it's cold?" Sherlock stands up then, he's just as tall as Benjamin, maybe taller. "Are you labouring under the impression that I am an idiot, Turner? Because that insult would apply to you." Benjamin's fingers curl up at his sides, and his eyes narrow, even as a flush creeps up his cheeks.

"You can't talk to me like that, you fr—"

Before he can finish his sentence, Sherlock has his fingers curled at the front of his shirt and he slams him against the tree. His lips pull back from his teeth in a snarl, even as every instinct in his body tells him to  _let go, stop, stop wrong wrong wrong._ "Don't," he spits, and his fingers twist in the cotton. Turner stares at him, his eyes wide, his mouth agape. His hands are spread against the bark, his legs apart.

"I'm only trying to help," he tells him, his voice soft and placating, as if he's speaking to a child. His hands reach out to touch him, as if he is somehow entitled to, and Sherlock recoils, letting him go in disgust.

Turner looks down at his shirt where the cotton is wrinkled and where his legs are still spread against the tree. Sherlock's gaze falls to the same spot and he notes a faint bulge in his trousers. He feels sick, bile rising in his throat. Turner looks up at him to meet his eyes and his lips pull up in a crooked smile. "Wanna help me out?" he asks.

Sherlock's fist slams into his face.

He feels an odd sense of déjà vu, watching Turner double over and moan and clutch his nose. He spits something at him, along the lines of  _freak_ or  _slut_ or  _whore,_ uncreative and unimaginative.

"I'm not your property," Sherlock tells him, as if he stating a fact. "Now go. You'll be late for class. And by the way? The ginger beta who you're attempting to get a leg over? She detests you. It's probably because of your morphine addiction. Or the erectile dysfunction. You ought to get that seen to. "

He looks up at him, wiping away the thin tendril of blood running down his nose. Sherlock feels a sense of triumph, looking at the crimson.  _I did that,_ he thinks. And at the same moment a faint tremor runs through him as if what he's done is twisted and wrong.

"I'm well enough to shove a knot in you and get you to shut up," Turner spits, "Maybe I will. You will. You'll take it, when I give it to you." He smirks at him again, and Sherlock controls the urge to punch him again. His hand hurts.

After he's gone, Sherlock falls to his knees, rubbing his fingers over his bruised knuckles. He picks up the brittle leaves that are strewn over the grass, crushes them in his fist and watches the wind pick up the brown and red and yellow pieces, scattering them until they're lost once more.

* * *

He meets Victor again.

It's been a month since he last spoke to him, a month since everything changed. Sometimes he sees Victor on the street, waiting at the bus stop. Whenever he does, he turns around and walks in the other direction, afraid of what he'll see when he looks into Victor's eyes.

He reminds himself over and over again that it wasn't his fault, it won't ever be. But sometimes he can't stop his fingers from trembling, can't stop the flush creeping over his neck, the memory replaying itself in his mind like a broken tape recorder. Mycroft never explicitly forbade him to meet Victor again, he knows that Sherlock will do whatever he wants to do anyway. But he disapproves of it. Mother doesn't say anything, and father wasn't told about it.

He's thinking about him, that day, when he's curled up in bed in one of those rare bouts of lethargy. He's not due for another month, at least, so he knows it's not the result of upcoming oestrus. Sunlight filters through the window, rain washed and bright.  _Advanced Forensic Science_ lies open next to him, the pages fluttering a bit in the breeze. Sherlock wonders if this is what loneliness feels like.

He can smell him, when he comes. The familiar scent in the air, cherries and wood. It used be an oddly comforting smell, something he associated with acceptance and safety. Victor wasn't his friend, because he doesn't have friends, but he was  _something_ , at least. Now he feels uncertainty and confusion and the faint metallic tinge of fear. Victor knocks on his door and Sherlock tells him it's open, and he comes in.

Sherlock doesn't look at him, although he wants to.

"Hi," Victor says, his voice cautious and soft. Sherlock sighs, getting up, his dressing gown slipping off his shoulder in the process. He combs his fingers through his hair, blinks at Victor. He's leaning against the closed door, his mouth turned up in a reproachful smile.

"Yes." That's all Sherlock says. It could mean anything.

"I-uh—how are you?" Victor walks forward and sits down on the edge of the bed, Sherlock's socked feet brush his thigh.

"Fine."

"How's school?" Victor asks. His gaze flicks down to Sherlock's mouth, but it's all very quick. If Sherlock wasn't Sherlock he might not have even noticed.

His chest still feels oddly tight.

Sherlock doesn't say he hates it more than ever, that when he gets top marks in assignments there's surprise where there wasn't any before. He doesn't say that people notice him too much now, for all the wrong reasons. He doesn't say that sometimes he wishes he could disappear.

"The usual."

"That's good," Victor says. Sherlock rolls his eyes and gets off the bed, the dressing gown slides down the length of his body from where it was bunched up under him. He stands at the desk, rearranging the microscope slides. He feels Victor's gaze on him seven inches away.

"Uh, listen," he clears his throat uncomfortably. Sherlock is looking intently at the polished wood, but he can hear the groan of the bedsprings as Victor gets up and stands next to him instead. "I came to return something to you, it's been at my place for ages."

Sherlock turns to him, then, raising an eyebrow in question. Victor studies him for a second, a flash of uncertainty across his face. He digs in the pocket of his jeans and takes out a CD. It's in a simple plastic case,  _Sherlock_ written across it in permanent marker.

"You left it there, last time, um," Victor fidgets. Sherlock looks at him, unimpressed, but takes the CD from him. His fingers brush against Victor's.

"I get it. Thank you," he replies stiffly, sliding the CD into the pocket of his dressing gown. He purses his lips and looks expectantly at Victor.

"Anything else?" he asks.

"Uh—no, not really. I just." He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture that Sherlock recognizes.

Sherlock cocks a hip against the desk and stares intently at him. "Yes?"

"You know I'm sorry, right?" he says, putting his palm on the desk so his fingers almost touch Sherlock's hand. "About what I said, last time."

Sherlock is aware of how close his skin is. "You don't need to," he says coldly. "My mother made that perfectly clear."

Victor licks his lips. "Yeah, but still. I shouldn't have—said what I did. I'm sorry."

"Okay."

"Sherlock, I—I mean it. You know I like you, right?" Suddenly Victor is a bit too close. Sherlock can smell too much of him, the cherry scent of him, sweet and tart.

"What?" he asks, genuinely confused. He feels sweat trickle down his neck.

"You. I like you. You're...different. Good." Victor's eyes travel down to his throat and swiftly back up, resting for a moment on his mouth before he meets his gaze again. Sherlock feels hot and a little bit trapped, even though Victor isn't restricting his movement in any way.

"I...okay?" Sherlock's voice wavers, and he's not quite sure why.  _I like you,_ the words ring in his ear. No one has said that to him before, and Victor has never...never given any implication that he thought of Sherlock in that way, he was older, wasn't he? Victor was older, and except for that day...he had never. Sherlock tries to deduce something about this conversation. Is this a joke? It must be a joke.

"Hey," Victor says, and he cups his hand behind his nape. Sherlock swallows, his eyes locked on that little scar at the corner of Victor's mouth. It's pale and faded, and disappears when Victor smirks. "You're thinking too much."

Sherlock frowns at him. Why is that a bad thing?

But then Victor has his lips pressed against his own, and Sherlock stops thinking for a second.

_Oh._

His mind feels pleasantly empty. He was right, though, Victor's lips are as soft as he thought they would be. Should he push him off? Say something? Part his lips and let Victor slide his tongue into his willing mouth?

His hand grips the desk harder, and he feels Victor cradle the back of his head, one hand pressed against his hip at where the hem of his t shirt meets the waistband of his pyjamas. He twists them around until he has him crowded against the desk, the rim digging into the small of his back. Sherlock doesn't know what to do with his hands so he just keeps them clutching at the desk.

"Open your mouth," Victor whispers against his lips, so Sherlock does, and the warm, wet slickness of Victor's tongue slides inside and Sherlock tastes something heady and intoxicating. He doesn't kiss back, he doesn't know how, Sherlock has never been kissed before; he tries to concentrate on keeping himself standing upright so he can properly feel the press of Victor teeth against his bottom lip. Victor gives a soft growl of approval and curls his hands into his hair, tugging at it so Sherlock tilts his face upwards, giving Victor better access to his mouth. Sherlock's eyes are closed and he can smell Victor's arousal mingling with his own, can feel the wetness between his legs. Victor presses him harder against the desk, his hand at the small of his back, lying a little too low on his waist. He slots a leg between Sherlock's and grinds, slightly, and Sherlock feels his hips roll of their own accord, a choked gasp making its way out of his mouth.

As far as first kisses go, Sherlock is just aware that it is  _too much_.

Victor pulls away, and Sherlock calculates that he has been kissed for approximately forty nine seconds. He feels Victor nuzzle at his throat, inhale his scent, his erection nudging between Sherlock's legs. His ears are buzzing and his nape is damp, as are his pyjamas. What is one supposed to do in these situations? Sherlock isn't sure. He loosens his grip on the desk and the blood flows back.

"You smell amazing," Victor murmurs, pressing his lips against his pulse. "Was that good? Did you like it?" His knee brushes his crotch and Sherlock bites his lip to prevent the moan, unable to stop the pleasure curling tightly in his belly. "You did, you're wet," Victor observes, and raises his head, smirking at Sherlock.

Sherlock raises his hands shakily and presses them to Victor's chest, pushing him away. He feels his cheeks flush in embarrassment, and he looks away, down at his feet, ignoring the wet spot on his pyjamas, trying to find equilibrium again. His legs feel weak, his head oddly light. He can't even blame it on the unavoidable biology of his body, not this time, this time it's a lapse on his own part.

Damn it, he wants Victor to kiss him again. Sherlock doesn't like wanting. It makes him too human.

He's still close, the push doing close to nothing. His hands fall away from his hips and he slides them into his pockets instead. "Hey, it's alright, you—"

"This doesn't change anything," Sherlock says, looking at him.

Victor raises an eyebrow. "Sure," he says. "Whatever. But, you know. I like you."

"Okay," Sherlock responds, and then turns away from him, choosing to look outside the window instead of Victor's flushed face and untidy hair. The sunlight blinds him slightly.

He feels Victor lean forward behind him and brush his hair away from his nape, pressing a kiss against the skin before he hears the door shut as he leaves.

Sherlock raises shaking fingers to his mouth and touches the still-sensitive skin. He thinks of hand holding, of fluffy clouds and dark storms that destroy everything in their path.

He can smell Victor on himself, and he hates it.

* * *

He meets him again, and again, and again, and Victor snogs him at every chance he gets—or wraps a hand around his cock and makes him come, shivering and gasping while he whispers filthy things in his ears. His family visists Victor's parents for dinners and Victor drags him into his room and Sherlock opens his lips around Victor's cock and lets him fuck his mouth. " _No one knows you're here,"_ Victor says, " _No one knows you're in my room, on your knees with my cock down in your pretty little mouth, and oh—fuck yeah, like that—don't know what a good little—_ fuck— _cock sucker you are—"_ Sherlock pretends it arouses him and pushes his hand into his pants to get himself off. It gags him and chokes him but he does it, because afterwards Victor will kiss him and tell him how good that was, and just for a few minutes Sherlock won't feel completely alone.

His door is closed, and Chopin is playing from inside. Sherlock closes his eyes for a second and listens. It calms him. Makes him feel sad, and that makes no sense, so he ignores it. He raises a fist to knock on the door, but Victor opens it before he can, leaning against the rim of the door and smiling at him lazily. "You came."

"I—" Sherlock licks his lips. "Yes, I suppose."

"Mmm, thought you would," Victor says, and pulls him inside, locking the door behind him. The music swells. Piano concerto no.2 in F minor.

His room is still the same. Sherlock hasn't been here since his sixteenth birthday last month. The posters on the wall, the desk strewn with his i-Pod headphones and open notebooks. The wardrobe, he knows, must be empty, the bed is stripped.

"When are you leaving?" he asks. He is aware of Victor standing behind him, a bit too close to comfort, and yet the proximity is...nice. It's confusing. It's always confusing when it comes to Victor. Longing/reluctance/annoyance/longing longing longing

"In an hour," Victor answers, and he leans forward, nose in his hair, inhaling deeply. Sherlock stills, his jaw tightening, an odd swooping sensation in his gut.

"I'm going to miss you," Victor says, his hand sliding down Sherlock's side, his palm warm over the thin t-shirt. Perhaps not the smartest thing to wear in autumn, Sherlock thinks. He shivers. But whether from cold or reluctant arousal, he doesn't know.

"I—"  _I'll miss you too?_ That seems like the sort of thing that one is expected to say in these situations, but would it be truthful? He'd be rather relieved, he decides, yes, perhaps he'll miss him, in a way, he'll miss the easy slip-and-glide of their relationship before biology wrenched it from him. This, though, whatever this is, he doesn't know what to feel about it.

"You're freezing," Victor muses, his fingers grazing the cold skin under his t-shirt. His fingers are warm. Sherlock shivers again. "Should have wrapped yourself up, hmm, wouldn't want you to get sick."

"Common cold, acute viral rhinipharyngites. Caused by coronavirus or rhinivirus," Sherlock babbles.

Victor hums. "Very good," he says, his tone amused. Then he places a hand a bit more forcefully on his hip and turns him around. Sherlock swallows in surprise. Victor is in front of him now, looking down at him only slightly (because now it's only an inch of a difference. Just an inch) the familiar smirk on his lips. Sherlock feels his crotch tighten uncomfortably under the onslaught of Victor's aroused gaze, just as Victor raises a hand and brushes his thumb across Sherlock's bottom lip. It's an intimate gesture, one that sends a shiver of arousal down his spine, inciting a sudden desire to get down on all fours for Victor, present himself like a piece of meat. He pushes the feeling down, and Victor cups his chin and kisses him.

Sherlock lets out a soft moan at the press of his lips, which Victor takes as encouragement and slips his tongue inside, running his palms down Sherlock's sides to wrap around his waist. Sherlock's hands are cramped against his chest, and he opens his mouth wider, lets Victor taste him and slide a hand down to his arse to squeeze. He chokes back a gasp and Victor presses himself harder against him, erection digging into Sherlock's stomach.

"Vic, I don't think—" he murmers, but Victor just tangles his fingers into his hair and tugs his head backwards, biting down softly on his lip. " _Ah,_ fuck," Sherlock whimpers, and Victor starts pushing them back, until he's pressed up against his desk.

Victor pulls harder at his hair, tugging his head back so he can get to his neck, sucking and biting at the taunt skin. It stings a bit, but Sherlock can't help but gasp and arch up to his touch, spreading his legs wider and letting victor stand between his thighs and rhythmically rut against his growing erection. He groans softly, Victor pushing his shirt up so he can run his hands down the fevered skin, pinching his nipples while he humps his thigh, Sherlock squirming underneath him, barely able to hold back his moans. It arouses him, if the wetness in the seat of his jeans is anything to go by, and it's nice, maybe not the kissing itself, but being wanted like this by someone, wanted enough for him to slip his hands under your shirt and touch you like  _this._

He hooks both arms underneath his arse and pulls him up, seating him on the desk like a child, moving in between spread legs and placing his warm, wet mouth underneath his ear. Sherlock is panting, knuckles white from gripping the desk, wanting to touch Victor, to curl his fingers in his hair but Victor will scoff at the gesture, so he just spreads his legs a bit more and lets Victor roll his hips against him, while he throws his head back and keens, pretty sure he's going to come just from Victor rubbing his cock against him. Victor lifts his shirt off and throws it on the floor.

"Never been fucked before, have you?" Victor whispers into his ear, fingers moving to the fly of his jeans to pull it down. Sherlock feels panic/curiosity/no no/yes yes  _yes_ and bites his lip, shaking his head at Victor because he's too afraid of what his voice will sound like if he speaks.

Victor groans in response, his breath hot and humid against his neck, pulling his jeans down and off his ankles. Sherlock's erection tents against his boxers obscenely and Victor palms it, making his hips jerk off the bed, a whimpery gasp wrenched from his lips. "I'm going to fuck you," Victor announces, moving back so Sherlock can look into his eyes, pupils wide and cheeks flushed with arousal, tanned hands still moving lazily down Sherlock's prick, "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Sherlock's eyes flutter and his hips rock against Victor's fist.

 _I don't know,_ he wants to say.  _Could you kiss me first?_

"Please," he says instead, and Victor's lips pull up in a crooked smile, and Sherlock's boxers are pulled off of him before he can change his mind, and Victor's heated gaze is running over his naked body like something that's about to be devoured and Sherlock doesn't know if feeling like a trapped bird is conductive to this kind of thing.

 _I want it. I do,_ he thinks.  _Or at least my body does._ It should be enough. There's slick running down his thighs and his skin feels fevered and his heart rate is high, certainly these are all signs that his body is telling him,  _Let's let Victor Trevor ruin us,_ and Sherlock wants to be wanted and this is all he'll ever have of that, so he allows Victor to pull him down from the desk, turn him around and press him against it instead, knocking his legs apart with his knee and holding his head on the surface of the table, keeping him in place.

Sherlock can't move, Victor's body is pressed against him, fingers tangled in his hair, wood pressing hard against his cheek, Victor's hand moving down to his arse to give it a squeeze. He writhes underneath him and Victor says, "Don't move," so he tries to, he does, but he feels uncomfortable and hot and like a butterfly pinned against a display case for everyone to examine and this doesn't feel right even though it should.

"God, I've wanted you like this since forever," Victor breathes; Sherlock can hear the rasp of his zipper and then the heavy, demanding weight of Victor's cock against his arse, and he doesn't know what to do, or how to do it, whether laying there and waiting to be fucked is such a good idea after all, especially when Victor is using nothing more than his own slick to open him up.

Sherlock gasps, the sensation of Victor's fingers inside him not so pleasant after all, mainly because he's not in heat and they should use lube, and because Victor is moving too fast and he's not giving him time to adjust, Sherlock hasn't had sex before and he knows the mechanics of it, but this is new and unfamiliar and if only Victor would  _slow down a bit_ Sherlock would try to be good for him, because he doesn't want to end up being another cross-out on Victor's list of conquests. He wants to be special, he wants to be remembered, he wants to be more than a moaning, keening omega under the heavy press of Victor's body.

Or maybe that's just the hormones talking.

"Look at you, all spread out for me like a good little whore," Victor bends down to whisper in his ear, lips pressing against his neck, fingers moving relentlessly in and out. Sherlock's knees buckle and his lips are chapped and rough from the unforgiving edge of his teeth. "God, I've wanted to fuck you for ages," he says, "You'd come here all neat and pretty, good little schoolboy and I wanted to fucking  _ruin you,_ you know? And that day—god that day—you were on your hands and knees and you have no idea what I wanted to do to you—and you would have taken it, begged me for it— _fuck,_ Sherlock, look at you," and then his fingers are finally gone, and Sherlock tries to move, but then Victor's hands are on his wrists, pinning him down like a prisoner, his cock teasingly brushing his entrance before plunging right in.

Sherlock almost screams, it's too  _tight_ and it  _hurts_ and his cock is lying hard against his belly which means he's aroused but this is all so  _uncomfortable_ and Victor groans from above him, his hips going  _roll, snap, roll snap,_ a rhythm that's fast and rough and sex is supposed to be good and pleasurable but this is neither.

Sherlock whines, fingers wriggling in Victor's grasp, and Victor probably takes it for arousal, because he moves quicker, saying, "You like that, yeah? You like this? Fuck.  _Fuck,_ Sherlock, you're so tight, fuck you feel so good, yeah,  _yeah,_ " and Sherlock is bent over the desk with his hands clamped above him, legs shaking from the force of Victor's thrusts, slick gushing between his legs and his cock throbbing; there are tears in his eyes and it's funny how the slow trickle of salt water down his cheeks distracts him from Victor ploughing at him from behind; he wants to wipe it off but he obviously can't move until Victor is done with him so he tries to enjoy it but it's a little difficult.

"Shhh, don't want Mother to hear us, now, do we?" Victor growls behind him, and Sherlock bites his lips but it's hard to keep quiet.

After a minute or so, Sherlock can just about tolerate it and he doesn't feel like moving anymore, instead he pushes his arse against Victor's cock and moans, rubbing his own prick against the desk. He'd like it if Victor let go of his wrists so he could get himself off, but Victor sounds too far gone to even care, he's grunting and groaning behind him, stretched over Sherlock and biting down on his shoulder like an animal. He'll be marked by tomorrow, he thinks, bruised with bites like he has a possessive alpha boyfriend. He'll be  _stinking_ with Victor's pheromones, scented like a mate and he wants to gag at the idea.

Instead he screws his eyes shut and lets Victor fucks him.

Afterwards, Victor pulls away and he winces, because it hurts, but he hopes he didn't see that. The sudden absence of contact makes him unsteady, and he has to wait for a few seconds before the faint trembling of his body subsides. He can hear Victor behind him doing up his jeans, the rasp of his zipper against metal. Sherlock's own fingers are shaking, and he can't fathom  _why,_ because he's not scared, why should he be scared? It makes no sense for his body to be acting this way.

He pulls his pants and his jeans up, even though they are sticky and cold, but he doesn't have anything else to wear. He stares insistently at the poster on the wall as he buttons himself up, not looking behind him, fingers still shaking. He pulls his t-shirt on, at least it's dry. His cock still strains uncomfortably against his jeans, Victor hadn't really fucked him long enough for  _both_ of them to come, but Sherlock supposes it doesn't really matter. He wills the erection to go away, thinking of the rat he's dissecting in his room. Behind him the bed springs groan as Victor sits on the bed. The  _bed._ Why couldn't they shag on the bed? It would have been more comfortable that way. Sherlock's cheek still hurts. He turns around, fingers still brushing the spot, and Victor is sprawled on the bed, legs apart, smiling at him lazily.

"Was that...enough." Sherlock clears his throat, and asks him again, "Was that good enough?"

Victor frowns at him for a second. "What?" Sherlock ignores the sinking feeling in his stomach and asks him again.

"I—" he doesn't really care anymore. He feels filthy and his arse hurts and his wrists hurt and he doesn't care that Victor will probably forget about this by the time he's in Oxford.

"Oh.  _That,_ " Victor laughs. "Yeah. Definitely. You should look at yourself right now, pretty little omega roughed up after a good fucking," he smiles crookedly like he's made the funniest joke possible but all Sherlock wants to do is dig his fingers into his shirt and shake him and ask him why he had to ruin everything. "Well. I ought to get on then." He checks his watch. Sherlock is still looking at the bed, wondering if it would have been nicer there, on his back, wrapping his legs around Victor as they rocked against each other. Maybe Victor could have whispered something nice in his ear. Maybe he could have wrapped his arms around neck. Maybe Victor wouldn't hurt him so much like that.

Victor follows the line of his gaze. "Oh," he says. "Well, we couldn't have gotten the mattress dirty."

Of course. Stained mattress. Evidence of their coupling plain for everyone to see. Does Victor not want anyone to know about it? Probably. But they'll smell it on  _him._ It's written clearly across his rumpled and damp clothing. Victor looks oddly unruffled.

Something cracks inside Sherlock. He can feel it like a fissure, fault lines erupting on every inch of skin, the tight membrane of his skin breaking apart. Suddenly he can't breathe.

"I—" he swallows. "I should go. I—have a safe trip." God, he sounds like a child. He's not a child.

He runs out of the room.

Down the stairs, trying to get out of the house as quickly as possible. His cheeks are burning. His clothes are sticky. He smells like cherries, it's  _awful._


	3. Rubatosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He really does have a knack for loving the things that will tear him apart, in the end

>  You love the city, when you love each other.
> 
> And when you wake up in a city that you don't recognize,
> 
> and the traffic lights blink angry,
> 
> it is not because the city has grown cold.
> 
> It is not because your hands no longer fit in his.
> 
> It is because it is someone else's turn to lean
> 
> out her window into the cold cold morning and say,
> 
> Baby, look at all those traffic lights, blinking their way into dawn.
> 
> \- Sarah Kay, For Fanny

 

 

 

"Suppressants," Sherlock snaps at him as soon as he is inside. The door slams shut loudly behind him. Mycroft is seated at his desk, signing increasingly dull government documents and doesn't give the slightest indication of having noticed him.

"Are illegal," he responds after a few seconds, and then looks up, placing his chin on interlaced fingers. His nostrils flare slightly at his scent, but he doesn't do anything else. Unlike Natalia Palmer. The memory makes him feel vaguely ill.

Sherlock crosses his arms. "Not all of them."

"You can't take suppressants until you reach sexual maturity," Mycroft picks up his pen again and continues to sign. He sounds like every bloody orange coloured pamphlet on omega sexual health and Sherlock has a strong urge to wrench the expensive fountain pen from his grasp and stab him with it. Repeatedly. "I take it you had an interesting day at school. You might as well have restrained yourself. Graduation is in what, a week?"

Sherlock scowls, stalking forward and tumbling into the chair opposite Mycroft's desk. He can smell Mycroft better like this, and he inhales deeply, involuntarily. He feels too warm. When he brings his fingers to his neck to undo the top two buttons of his shirt his skin is feverish.

"I—" he stops. Loses track of his sentence. Mycroft looks up, then, grey eyes sharp with concern.

"I don't care," Sherlock spits out, although that hadn't been what he originally planned to say. "She's hateful and I gave her what she deserved. And don't change the subject. I need suppressants, and don't pretend you can't procure them for me. I'm sick of this."

"Sherlock," Mycroft says wearily, and Sherlock detests that tone. He wants to strangle that tone and stab it with Mycroft's fountain pen. "Going through your heats naturally is healthy. Suppressants are not. They have side effects. Infertility. Weight loss. Nausea. And they're terribly expensive." He taps the pen against the desk, and the sound grates unpleasantly against his ears.

"Don't pretend, Mycroft, it doesn't suit you," Sherlock hisses. "And I don't care if they make me bloody infertile. Do you think I give a fuck about whether I'll be able to pop out a few pups in a couple of years? Or perhaps you and father care? Because how on earth will I land an Alpha when I can't even get pregnant—"

"For God's sake," Mycroft finally snaps, putting his pen down and glaring at Sherlock. "It's for your own good. Wait a few years, you can get a limited amount of them regularly, and you'd only have to go into a heat once a year or so. Taking them while you're still young, it's not—"

"Fine," Sherlock says brusquely. "I can get them illegally. You know I can. And illegal suppressants will do far worse things to my body, as you know."

Mycroft looks furious. Sherlock enjoys it immensely. The government documents lay forgotten as he raises a hand to run it through his hair. "And how are you going to pay for them?"

"I have a trust fund."

"To which I can cut off your access very easily."

"I'm sure I can use my natural charms to my advantage," Sherlock allows himself a crooked smile.

Mycroft's lip curls in disgust. "Sherlock, you cannot—"

"Well," he replies brightly, getting up. "This conversation has been delightful. Do come visit, Mycroft. You know how mummy misses you." His exit is dramatic, which is good, but he could have argued for longer, if only Mycroft hadn't been smelling increasingly...pleasant. Sherlock's fever is beginning to spike and there is a dull ache in his belly. If Mycroft won't be able to supply him with suppressants, he'll have to find another way to procure them. A distasteful prospect, definitely. But he won't be able to nick cash from Mycroft, and breaking into the trust fund, or his father's bank account, for that matter, wouldn't be possible without Mycroft finding out.

Benjamin Turner, as it turns out, has access to a variety of illegal substances. Sherlock knows this without asking anyone, naturally.

He doesn't know how to confront him. How to ask. The dull pain in his belly has spread to his thighs and his groin and now his head hurts as well. Outside it is freezing but Sherlock can't bring himself to wear his jumper. Most omegas would take the few days of pre-heat off, but Sherlock refuses to. He doesn't need to coddle himself, not when everyone else takes care of that so admirably.

He watches them playing rugby for a while, Benjamin Turner and his friends. He leans against a tree and breathes in cool air and tries to recite the entire periodic table under his breath, to distract himself from his unusually fast heart rate and the tingling feeling in his crotch. When they're done, they stumble into the showers, laughing at lewd jokes and punching each other. Sherlock waits outside the locker room for a few seconds, reminding himself that the mingled scent of sweat and mud and grass and alpha/alpha/alpha  _isn't_  good, isn't supposed to make him feel anything other than mild disgust. Perhaps it isn't such a good idea to walk right into a roomful of testosterone-filled alphas just off the high of a rugby game, right on the verge of his heat. But Sherlock's head hurts and his limbs are weak and if only he could get a few suppressants, and Benjamin Turner will be able to provide him with some, and what does anything else matter?

So he takes a deep breath and walks in, and the smell grows stronger, as if it has suddenly been amplified by a thousand times, filling his nose and sending messages to his lizard brain that every person in this room is a potential mate. As soon as he is inside, all of them look up and their gaze zeroes in on him, and it's not supposed to feel good. But it does, and Sherlock can't help it.

"Why, hello there," Patrick Rowland says immediately. He wiggles his eyebrows at Sherlock. The rest of them laugh loudly. "Can we help you?"

"I need Turner," Sherlock spits. He raises a hand to push his hair back. His fingers come away damp.

"Need?" Rowland repeats suggestively, and someone gives a lewd wolf whistle. Sherlock's fists curl at his side and he says again, "Someone fetch him for me, please."

"Alright, then, Holmes," one of them answers, turning around. Beta. "Oi, Turner! Sherlock Holmes  _needs_  you, apparently—wonder what he needs you for, eh?" He winks at Sherlock as he says so, and Sherlock feels his stomach roll. Someone wraps an arm around his waist, palm burning against his hip.

"I could give you what you need," he mocks into his ear, and Sherlock can feel him; shirtless, next to him, in nothing but a towel, sweaty and smelling of—fuck, what is that? Rum, he sells like rum—and why in God's name does that not seem like a ridiculous notion, because it is, Sherlock wouldn't touch this cretin with a six-feet pole. He elbows him away. "Fuck off," he snarls.

"Ooooh," Mark whistles from behind him. "Better not touch him, then, mate, he obviously wants Turner  _only_..."

This was a stupid idea, Sherlock thinks, fucking stupid, he's an idiot—what on earth is he doing here? Walking into an alpha locker room, what did he expect? He'd be treated with politeness and respect instead of automatically being groped? What an ideal world that would be. He gives a frustrated, angry sigh, shoves Ian McKinnon away and starts to leave when he hears Turner's voice, "Holmes? What do you want?"

Sherlock stills, turns around. "You. Yes. I need a word with you."

More wolf whistles. Someone thumps Turner on the back. "Me?" he looks unconvinced. "Okay." He shrugs, and Sherlock gets out of that stifling locker room to the corridor outside, where it is cooler, without the thick scent of alpha pheromones in the air strangling his ability to think straight. Now it is only Turner, standing in front of him, hair wet from a shower and the collar of his shirt slightly damp. Sherlock chooses not to fixate on that.

Turner leans against the wall and raises an eyebrow at him. "Go on, then." His gaze drops to Sherlock's mouth and even further below, and his pupils dilate slightly. But he doesn't touch him. Maybe he's learnt his lesson. Maybe he knows Sherlock is capable of decapitating him in eighteen different ways at this particular moment.

"Somewhere people can't hear us," Sherlock finds himself saying, and Turner raises an eyebrow.

"You can't be serious," he laughs.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I am attempting to have a civil conversation with you, Turner, please don't turn everything into a proposition."

Turner smirks at him and then his fingers circle his wrist. Sherlock looks down at the calloused fingers around his wrist and his pulse jumps a bit, but he doesn't pull Sherlock closer, instead leading him further down the corridor and opening a door on the side.

"This classroom isn't used much. We won't be disturbed." He says this without a suggestive wink or a crude comment, but Sherlock notices the way his eyes grow dark and the subtle way he adjusts his trousers.

"Let's not pretend I won't break your arm if you try and touch me," Sherlock informs him, closing the door shut and turning around to face him. Turner's eyebrows are raised, but he nods like he finds Sherlock amusing and pulls out a chair to sit.

"So what do you need?" he asks conversationally. "Coke? I don't do meth, just to be upfront. But I can—"

"Suppressants," Sherlock says calmly.

Turner stops. "Oh." He says.

"Well?" Sherlock prompts.

"They won't be too hard to get. I know a bloke. But, uh, are you sure? I mean, they're not very—"

"Just tell me," Sherlock replies shortly.

"Can you pay for them?" he asks dubiously. He crosses and uncrosses his legs. The proximity to Sherlock is getting to him, then. "I know you're rich, but suppressants don't come cheap."

The back of Sherlock's head is throbbing. "I...I don't have money," he answers.

Turner stares at him. "You're fit and everything, Holmes, don't get me wrong, but I can't give them to you for free." He adjusts his trousers for the third time, choosing to stand up then.

Sherlock starts to panic. This is not going the way he had planned. Then again, what exactly had he planned ? He'd ask for suppressants and Turner would conjure them out of thin air? Give some to him and ask for nothing in return? He is standing far too close to Turner, he registers.

"There must be something," he says desperately. His voice takes on a strained edge.

Turner's eyes go impossibly dark. Sherlock regrets his words immediately.

"Yeah, I'm sure there's something," he replies, smiling crookedly at him. He steps closer. Chocolate. He smells like chocolate, and Sherlock involuntarily licks his lips. Ridiculous.

"No," Sherlock says it loud. Loud enough for it to be clear, precise, definite. No, I will not let you fuck me for suppressants. No, I mean it. I mean it, I mean it.

"I haven't made an offer yet," he says.

"You don't need to. I am not an idiot, unlike you. The answer is no." He steps away from him until his back against the door, but Turner steps closer, like one magnet to another, and suddenly Sherlock is aware that he is in front of him, trapping him effectively, and all Sherlock has to do is reach down and turn the door handle, get him off—

"Then why did you bring me here, to this empty classroom,  _where no one can hear us_ ," he uses his fingers to air quote the words, "to ask me for drugs? Fucking tease."

Sherlock never planned this, he didn't,  _he didn't._  He didn't think at all, really, and therein lies the problem, the entirety of his predicament. His body feels too hot for him to think, and his hand is too sluggish in moving towards the handle, because Turner grabs it quite easily and pins it above his head. Sherlock could knee him in the groin. Right now.

"Calm down, I'll get them for you. You just need to say the word," he says. His words are cloying and sweet, leaving his mouth in a rush of air that feels acidic against the damp skin of his neck. Sherlock bites his lip.

"I don't want them," Sherlock lies. He wants them desperately.

"Then what do you fucking  _want_ , you bloody cock tease," Turner bites out, and then his mouth is on Sherlock's, parting his lips with his own and wielding his tongue like a weapon. Sherlock immediately uses his knee to knock him off and shoves him with his hands so he falls.

"Do you honestly only think with your  _cock_ ," Sherlock spits at him, and wrenches the door open, leaving Turner on the ground moaning and clutching his groin.

He leans against the  _wall_  outside, cradling his head. It hurts. He has graduation next week. Not that he cares. He doesn't. But mummy kept asking him the date and he kept snapping at her because  _how many times am I to tell you, mother_ , but it meant that she wanted to come; that she would emerge from her eternal self-pitying long enough to.

Sherlock turns around and locks the door and walks down the corridor and hopes Turner is never able to open it, and he dies in that room, withered corpse all that remains of him.

* * *

The suppressants arrive in non-descript brown packaging the next day. With a note from Mycroft.

_Don't be stupid. MH_

How typically Mycroft, Sherlock snorts, and rips the brown packing away to get to the bundle of blister packs tied together. He counts them all. 60 pills. They are enough to last him for a little more than a year. If he lets himself go into heat once, maybe, two years. Sherlock downs one with his tea at night just as prescribed and promptly spends the next six hours hunched over the toilet, feeling as if he is puking out his internal organs.

"You shouldn't do this to yourself," his mother says, standing at the door. "It's terrible for you, dear, you won't be able to find a—"

"Go away," Sherlock croaks, and retches once more.

But he smells like himself, and nobody paws him during graduation, and his body feels like his own again. He leaves school feeling almost happy, because he never has to see these people again, it's over, it's over.

* * *

London isn't boring.

London is loud and vibrant and cold and everything is in a constant state of flux. It seems like what the inside of his head would look like, and Sherlock wraps the musical absurdity and beauty of the city around himself like a thick, smoky blanket, and lets himself get lost in it.

It feels like home, and he thinks to himself,  _I'm going to live here someday_. Maybe as soon as he starts university, this autumn. In the city you can't see the stars, which is a pity, because Sherlock likes them. He can't name them, doesn't really care about the details, but the poetry of it; yes, it is beautiful, isn't it?

Mycroft is content to know he's in London, and since he's probably being caught on surveillance by a camera nearby anyway, he won't be bothered yet. The cigarette smoke is stale in his mouth while he stands outside Victor's flat, and he thinks about desecrated churches, trees being split in two. London breathes around him like a slumbering dragon, and Sherlock wonders why, of all the places to be, he is here.

He really does have a knack for loving the things that will tear him apart, in the end.

He knows Victor is fucking some vapid, blond omega. He knows she comes over on the weekends and she's in the same year as she is, physics major, and she is beautiful and smart and all the things that he is not, most importantly, normal. Victor likes him because he is jagged and sharp and sometimes you just want someone _interesting_  to fuck, which Sherlock can understand, he really can, but he supposes that you can't fall in love with a maelstrom because it sucks you in and kills you. Fate always seems to have its way.

Sherlock feels sad, he feels the edges of it creeping into the hollow in his chest, threatening to make his heart ache. He doesn't want it, hates it, actually, and he never lets himself feel those things, but it's even more painful trying to choke them. He rings the bell.

Victor opens the door, and he looks much the same, only his chin is dark with stubble and his hair is slightly longer. His scent is different, though, he can smell the ripe, floral scent of the physics major on him, and it gives him a sharp twinge somewhere in the vicinity of his chest.

"Sherlock?" Victor looks confused before he breaks out in a grin. "Fuck, it's good to see you. Come in. What are you doing here?"

Sherlock doesn't say anything, just shakes the rain from his hair and steps into the warmer confines of Victor's flat. Vic closes the door behind him, and Sherlock looks around at the small room, messy and disoriented and covered in books everywhere.

"There are two more people living with you," Sherlock infers. "One of them is a theatre major, hmm, interesting, alpha. The other...physics? Ah, no, chemistry, along with you, those belong to the omega you're currently shagging. The theatre major plays tennis, the other one is a terrible guitar player, hmm...he doesn't—"

"Shh," Victor says behind him, hands resting on his hips and mouth against his ear. "Slow down for a bit, would you?"

Sherlock wants to tell him that he doesn't want to slow down, that the entire point of Victor was that he didn't mind when Sherlock didn't 'slow down'. He turns around and opens his mouth to tell him so, but Victor kisses him then, and he tastes like coffee and cigarette smoke; the familiarity of it makes everything inside of him  _ache_ , and his thoughts on the matter vanish entirely. He is aware of his coat being slipped off his shoulders, the muted thump as the heavy wool falls on the wooden floor. Victor's warm fingers cup his chin and he angles his head so Victor can kiss him deeper. But he smells wrong, and Sherlock presses his palms against his chest and pushes him off.

"What was that for?" Victor asks, eyes narrowing.

"I didn't come here so you could fuck me," Sherlock answers, looking back at him unflinchingly.

"No?" Victor challenges, looking amused. "Funny."

Sherlock tries not to think about how that doesn't sound quite right. He sighs and sits down on the threadbare couch instead, picks up the half empty bottle of whiskey on the little coffee table and swigs. Victor laughs from the spot he hasn't moved from, and asks, "Do you want a glass?"

"Does it look like I want a glass," Sherlock asks him, and looks up at him, and quite deliberately, licks his upper lip, mopping up the linger taste of alcohol. Tattered converse are thumped down on the rough top of the table, as he stretches out his legs. A page of sheet music—piano, Victor used to play, still plays, maybe, he doesn't really care—flutters to the floor.

Victor sits down next to him, takes the bottle from his hand and puts it down on the table. "Why are you here, Sherlock," he asks. Sherlock stares at the faded bottoms of his pyjamas.

"Where are the rest of your flatmates?" he asks instead.

"Out, I suppose. I don't know," his fingers play on his thighs. Sherlock likes those fingers.

"You were with her," he mutters, staring at them. "Right before. At the pub down the street. Do you like her very much?"

"Yes, I do," Victor answers confidently, while he tangles fingers in Sherlock's hair to turn his head. "What is all this?"

"I—" Sherlock tries not to purr from the feel of Victor's hands. He remembers those fingers. How they feel on him. Inside him. Running down his skin. Victor touches her like that, he thinks, he's been doing it for almost a year, and he came by every vacation and still fucked Sherlock over his desk in his bedroom. Like clockwork. Like routine. "I don't know," he replies, surprisingly ineloquent, unsure of what to do with any part of his body. Victor seemed to like him in only one way, and it seems like even that is fading.

"You smell different," Victor says, pressing his mouth to side of Sherlock's neck. "Suppressants?" He inhales. "You used to smell better."

"And I couldn't make it to school without half the population of the town attempting to grope me," Sherlock rejoins, deadpan. "I found it immensely enjoyable."

"Smart arse," Victor breathes against his neck, and then in one fluid movement has him his back, on straddling his hips. "You're going to have a hard time at university if you keep opening this all the time," he brushes his fingers over Sherlock's lips. Sherlock ignores the comment and instead, in a stroke of genius opens his mouth and sucks Victor's fingers into them. Victor's eyes darken predictably and his mouth pulls up into a crooked smile.

"There, that," he groans. "That's what you should do with that pretty mouth of yours." He pushes them further into his mouth and Sherlock closes his eyes and swirls his tongue around them. Victor rolls his hips against him, making him gasp and buck his hips upward.

"Ah, that's it, feels good, doesn't it?" he leans down and kisses him. "Thought you didn't come here so I could fuck you,'" he mocks, dipping fingers into his waistband and pulling them down, jeans and pants together. Sherlock wants to correct him that no, he doesn't really want Victor to shag him here, he just wanted to see him, but he's afraid that that will not have a positive reaction and all he wants right now is for Victor to not leave. He'd let him fuck him a thousand times if that meant that Victor would just  _stay_. "Almost eighteen and you still can't tell what you want," he says, wrapping a hand around his erection. Sherlock makes a strangled sort of noise, eyes going wide and teeth digging hard into his bottom lip as he tries to control the sounds he's making.

"Are you—are you going to fuck me, then?" he rasps, as Victor gives his cock a slow tug, using his other hand to unbutton his shirt.

"What's it look like I'm doing, genius," he responds, smirking, and brushes a thumb over a nipple. Sherlock's eyes roll back in his head and the familiar heat spirals down his body. Suppressants were originally wrecking havoc with his libido, he felt no arousal at all for the first few weeks but now it seems that Victor is working around that particular problem, if his pulsing prick is anything to go by.

"Ah, ah, fuck," he groans, and Victor leans down the side of the couch to rummage somewhere on the floor, fishing out a bottle of lube.

"You fucked her here," he observes. "On this couch, using that—"

"Mmm hmm," Victor responds, grabbing his hip and attempting to turn him over.

"What if someone were to come in, what if—"

"Then you better shut up and flip over, hmm?" he replies, fingers digging a bit more persistently into his flesh.

"And now you're fucking me," Sherlock can't help the hysterical bubble of laughter that's building in his throat, threatening to escape his mouth. "On this very couch, you should have used the bed, Vic, should have taken her on the bed, or fucked me on the floor, which is filthy by the way, but since when have you cared—"

"Shut up," Victor answers, and grabs him by the hipbones and forces him on his front. Sherlock is caught between the same hysterical laughter and arousal and bitter tears are pricking at the corner of his eyes—what? Where did they come from? Something is confusing about all of this, there is something odd in Victor's touches tonight, they have always been rough, but never quite bordering on violent—odd, but Sherlock doesn't move, because Victor won't want him if he can't fuck him, and Sherlock will be alone. The thought of being alone is enough to terrify him, send him into a panic. He bites his lips and his fingers dig into the arm of the sofa, before he suddenly screams as Victor's palms surround his hips and he pushes right in.

"Fuck," Sherlock hisses through the sudden onslaught of pain. Victor's hands hurt on his backside, he hasn't even prepared him, god it  _hurts._

"That's it,  _fuck_ , yeah," Victor groans behind him, thrusts erratic and rough and Sherlock is gasping and writhing underneath him in a few seconds, uncomfortable and itching to get out. Sex is horrible, he decides, what has he been thinking all this time? It used to be mildly pleasant, but this, fuck, this is threatening to cut off his oxygen and send him straight into an anxiety attack.

"Victor," he manages to choke out, as he fucks him, quick and shallow, but painful all the same. "Vic, please, I—" he can't quite get the sentence out, because it dissolves into a whimper instead. Victor grabs him by the hair and wrenches his head back, holding him almost upright and thrusts in at a different angle, and it feels—fuck, that would be his prostate—but it hurts, it hurts, and Sherlock doesn't  _want_ , he doesn't, but instead of 'no' all he manages to emit is a gasp and a groan.

"Like that, don't you, like being fucked over the sofa like a slut?" Victor has his arm around his middle, practically pulling him into his lap. Sherlock writhes around, pleading noises escaping his mouth which Victor probably mistakes for arousal. A few more thrusts and his orgasm is wrenched out of him, while he gasps and his fingers dig into the sofa. Victor fucks into his pliant, limp body until he spends himself inside of him, and then he pulls wetly out of him. Sherlock winches and mewls a bit pathetically and falls face first into the couch, feeling more like a washed out rag than anything else.

He breathes. In. Out. In. Out. He can hear rain falling outside. Pat pat pat against the window. In. Out. In. Out. Pat. Pat. Pat. His heart thuds against his chest, his entire body aches, and his lips are chapped and red. Pat. Pat. In. Out. He tries to move his arms and pull his pants up, but he finds that he can't move anything at the moment. Victor behind him, the whish of pyjamas as they're pulled up his legs. An old t-shirt thrown over the arm of the sofa.

"Mmm. That was great," he says. "Clean that up, would you." Or something. Sherlock can't be sure. There is a dull pounding in his ears.

Victor disappears for a moment and Sherlock is grateful for the few minutes to pull himself together and wipe his own semen off the couch. It will still be obvious to anyone with a pair of eyes and a decent sense of smell, he thinks, while he rubs it off and throws the offending garment on the floor. But Victor has never really cared about who knows.

When he comes back in a fresh set of pyjamas and hair roughly combed, Sherlock has his own pants and jeans on and his shirt is buttoned. If only he could change his clothes and wipe all evidence of being fucked by Victor off his body. But it still clings to him, like sweat, and he would be able to feel it even if he scrubbed himself raw.

"Drink that, if you want," Victor gestures towards the alcohol Sherlock wants to laugh. He almost does, but instead the manic laughter that threatens to spill, ugly and bitter, from his lips, emerges in a short, sharp chuckle.

"I bet she's stupid," he says, lighting a cigarette right in the middle of Victor's sitting room.

"Do you," Victor replies, uninterested. It makes Sherlock want to punch him.

"Yes. I—why her? Why are you—I don't understand, Vic, what about...what about..." The words jumble on the edge of his tongue and he ends up not saying at all, really. Victor stares at him from where he is standing in front of the window, looking quite confused.

"What about what?" he asks.

"Your requirements from a relationship are predominantly satisfaction of your sexual urges, yes?" Sherlock is suddenly standing up, words sharp and sharp and furious as he says them. "I gave that to you, didn't I? You wanted someone to conveniently fuck, and I let you. I fail to understand why you need an additional partner when you could have had me whenever you wanted. I demanded very little reciprocation from your part, many would say I am an ideal mate in that sense. Then why, Victor?" he threw his arms out, gesturing to everything, the flat, university, that bloody fucking omega that he's courting, all of these things around him that seem designed to torment him.

Victor stares. "What the hell are you talking about?" he demands, stepping closer. "What the hell is this," he says again, sounding marginally calmer. "Sherlock, explain."

"Since when have you ever needed me to talk," Sherlock screams, and picks up the bottle and hurls at the wall. It makes a screeching, terrible noise as it shatters on impact and there's alcohol and broken pieces of glass everywhere. It smells like a pub suddenly.

"What the fuck," Victor seethes, and then suddenly he's shoving Sherlock's coat into his chest and saying, "Get out. Get out of this flat. What the hell is wrong with you, call your brother, I don't care, just get out."

Sherlock is frozen by this sudden cruelty and is unable to say something until Victor is pushing him towards the door.

"You—"

"Honestly, Sherlock, you're right, you were a good shag, and don't take this the wrong way, but you're _fucked up_."

Good shag. Good shag? Sherlock should say something. Hit him. Threaten to tell that vapid bitch that her boyfriend has been cheating on her for months but his mouth is unbearably frozen.

"Don't—I thought—" his fingers are shaking uncontrollably for some reason.

"You thought what," suddenly Victor stops, one arm stretched out beside him where his palm is against the door. His eyes are cold and his mouth an unyielding, hard line. "Thought I was in love with you, you loved with me, what? It was just sex, Sherlock, I had a good time, you had a good time, that's really all there was. Don't make it something you're not. And I thought you didn't give a shit about stuff like that. You don't, do you?"

He doesn't. Does he? Sherlock looks down at his coat in is arms, at Victor's disbelieving expression, feels his throat swell uncomfortably. Of course it was just sex. Sherlock knows that. And why on earth would he love Victor? He doesn't want to be loved. He just wanted a friend. That's what Victor was, right? A friend?

"No," he says, his voice shaking a little. "No of course not."

"Good. Glad we sorted that out." Then he pulls Sherlock away from the door, opens it, and then gestures outside with his arm. "I think you should leave. Ashley will be here any moment."

"It's raining," Sherlock says, and he could kick himself, because isn't  _that_  an obvious comment.

Victor looks unconcerned. "Get an umbrella," he answers, and then shuts the door in his face.

Sherlock stumbles for a few seconds on the steps outside before he manages to stop his body from trembling quite so much. The rain falls and it is already seeping into his hair, his collar, his feet. He stares at his coat and feels lost. He feels  _lost_. What is he supposed to do now? The rain is in his eyes now and he has to blink repeatedly to get it out.

His throat feels odd. Swollen, as if...but he hasn't cried in years, and he's far too old now anyway.

The coat is already quite sodden in his arms but he slips it on all the same, grateful for the bit of warmth it provides. When he gets out into the street he is drenched in seconds, hair plastered to his forehead and rainwater seeping into his shoes. How idiotic of Victor to suggest he get an umbrella. Where will he find an umbrella? Lying on the road?

He shivers. The rain falls. He knows his way well enough around London, even though he's been in the city only a few times, but he stands still, letting himself get wet, for an unforgivably long period of time because his brain seems to not be working. As if on cue, a sleek black car pulls up on the side of the road.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but walks towards it all the same, tumbling into the warmth of car.

"You're a bloody annoying twat," he tells Mycroft, which he knows Mycroft will translate into  _Thank you for coming I'm a bloody mess and I'm falling apart._

Mycroft's fingers tap against the wheel, and he looks at Sherlock in the rear mirror, grey eyes piercing and all-knowing, reminding him of younger days, skinned knees, Mycroft's careful fingers bandaging injuries, reading him pirate stories. "Where shall we go, then?" he asks.

"Take me home," Sherlock says, in a quiet voice, and curls up as small as he can in the back seat, as if he can physically make himself disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last John-less chapter that you will have to bear, I promise. Stay tuned.  
> And on that note, please leave a review. :)  
> And, of course, if any of you would like to talk about this fic, have any questions regarding the f-ed up biology of the omegaverse, or just wanna chat , you can always visit me at [my tumblr.](http://subtext-is-my-division.tumblr.com/)


	4. Perdition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if on cue, the blond one rears an arm back and lands a punch on Sebastian’s jaw. “Fuck off,” he tells him calmly. “He’s sick. He needs a doctor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for being MIA for so long. I had a lot of work to finish, exams to take, and generally adult things to do. But I'm back now, with a new update! Also, this hasn't been beta-ed, so any stupid mistakes are my own and if you point them out, I will correct them.
> 
> ~Heed the tagzzzzz~

 

 

 

> All of us stuck on the freeway
> 
> Are underneath downtown and the sky. If you spend
> 
> Long enough in one place you will eventually be hit
> 
> By lightening.
> 
> _\- Neil Hilborn_
> 
>  
> 
> Part Two: explaining is an admission of failure 
> 
>  

Sherlock’s eyes are tired from staring at the computer screen for so long. The letters are etched into the back of his eyes; if he closes them he can still see them clearly. Briefly, he considers picking up the entire computer and throwing it out the window. Imagines the mild satisfaction of seeing it broken and hissing on the pavement below.

Victor has sent him twenty one emails over the course of the last year. They’ve grown increasingly aggressive the last four months. They have recently stopped. The only conclusion that Sherlock can come to is that he has realized that Sherlock isn’t worth the effort and has therefore given up. Victor, it turns out, is far cleverer than he had assumed. Still, there is a tightness in his chest that refuses to dissipate.

 

He stubs his cigarette onto his desk, watches the ash collect in a tiny pile on the wood.

***

 

He doesn’t quite remember whose flat he’s in when he gets caught; barely remembers short cropped black hair, freckles, dexterous, nimble fingers trying to undo the fly of his jeans.

Not his proudest moment, even worse when someone kicks the door open and then there are rough hands on his shoulder, slamming his face first against the wall; the clink of metal against his wrist. Sherlock remembers laughing, telling the officer that he’s sorry that his television isn’t working, and he has the number for a repair service if he’s interested. By the way, would it be too forward of him to ask if he’ll be fighting for joint custody of the children, or will he just—

The officer hisses at him to shut up, and he’s being bundled into a car, thrown into a cell. Too many things happening too fast, and they even took away the cocaine in his pocket. And he’d paid so much for it too.

 

He wakes up aching, twitching, and feeling distinctly warm. He undoes the top two buttons of his shirt. His head hurts. His eyes are itchy. The grey haired officer from yesterday is sitting at a desk a little further away, reading something from a file and drinking a gigantic mug of coffee. He doesn’t even look up from his file when he asks, “How’d you know my electricity wasn’t working?”

Sherlock leans back against the wall, knees drawn up, exhausted but grinning. He explains it to him, and the officer looks…impressed.

“And the divorce?”

Easily explained.

“It’s a pity that someone so bright is wasting the best years of his life,” the officer tells him. He’s young, mid thirties perhaps; but he looks much older than his age and his hair is streaked prematurely with grey. Sherlock finds him vaguely interesting. There isn’t much to find out about him, but whatever he can pick from his hair and his clothes and the paler skin around his ring finger, he tells him. The officer looks up then, cocks his head to the side and says, “Hmm.” There’s pity in his eyes, and disappointment, par for the course whenever people look at him, really, but also…surprise. Awe. Sherlock takes what he can.

“Drugs wreck havoc on your reproductive system,” he says after a while, and Sherlock decides he doesn’t like him very much after all. Still, when they bring in a suspect for questioning later and Sherlock tells him that they’ve got the wrong man, the officer walks up to his cell, wraps his fingers around an iron bar and asks, “Tell me what you think, then.”

 

Later, of course, (but still unforgivably long for Mycroft) there is a phone call, and the officer looks surprised and a little annoyed while he’s on the phone, but he says, “Yes. Yes, sir,” and keeps it down with much more force than warranted. Sherlock wonders if he’s permanently damaged the phone.

“Orders from the higher ups that you’re to be released,” he tells Sherlock. His eyes are narrowed. “Should have known. Posh, spoilt brat with too much time and too much money on his hands. You’re actually quite clever, you might as well do something with that gigantic brain of yours.”

He sends someone to unlock him, and they give him back his wallet and keys. Sherlock is shrugging into his coat when he takes the ID card he nicked from the officer’s desk and hands it back to him, hanging precariously between two fingers. “I’m not spoilt,” he pauses. “Mr. Lestrade.”

He raises his eyebrows and takes the ID card back, slips it into his pocket. “Greg,” he corrects him. The hardness around his eyes softens a bit. “And _that,”_ he taps his pocket, “was a criminal offence.”

Sherlock gives him an appraising look. The tie around his neck is loose. He can see a faded bond mark peeking out from underneath the dark blue material. Close enough to smell him now, faintly; alpha. He shrugs. “I thought you were a police officer. You should be more alert.”

“Detective inspector actually,” he points his chin towards the door. “Some Mycroft Holmes is waiting for you in a car outside. Father? Never mind, I don’t want to know. You should be off. Well, technically you should be staying here serving your time, but I suppose having connections to the government has its perks.”

Sherlock reaches forward for his mug and drains the remaining coffee, just to annoy him. “You’ve still caught the wrong man.”

His lips curve up, not quite a smile. “Have you considered joining the force?”

Sherlock snorts. “Please.”

“If you get yourself cleaned up, I might have a case or two for you. You’re bored out of your mind, aren’t you?” His fingers drum against his desk.

 

Sherlock purses his lips, but doesn’t say anything.

 

***

 

“I see you’ve got your giant nose everywhere,” Sherlock snaps when he climbs into the car. “Don’t you have a bureaucratic ladder to climb?”

“A thank you would be _lovely_ ,” Mycroft rejoins smoothly, throwing him a six pack of bottled water. He sounds slightly amused, but Sherlock isn’t fooled for a second. There’s barely contained fury in his voice.

He tears at the packaging, rips one bottle from the rest and cracks the seal open. It’s cold and it tastes wonderful. “I could have escaped.”

Mycroft laughs. “No you couldn’t have.”

Sherlock want to argue, wants to hit Mycroft with something, want to open the window and thrust his head outside, wants—

A wave of nausea hits him and he doubles over, gripping the bottle so hard in his hand that he can hear the loud crinkling of plastic. He squeezes his head between his knees. Blood pounds in his ears. He feels the delicate trickle of sweat down the back of his neck.

“This has to stop,” Mycroft tells him when he finally falls back against the seat, sweating and panting. “Or I’m sending you to rehab next week. There’s a lovely, quiet one in Scotland, you might even like it there.”

“No.” Sherlock looks at him in the mirror, is disgusted with the own panic in his voice. Rehab; four walls closing in on him and no respite, stupid, foolish dull people plying him with pills that do nothing for him, only make him want to wrench his own skin apart—

Mycroft turns a corner. “Don’t push me,” he says mildly.

Sherlock grits his teeth. “I have it under control.”

“You’re one miscalculation away from an overdose,” Mycroft corrects him. “I wouldn’t call that _having it under control.”_

They’re both quiet for a while, Sherlock quietly seething in the backseat, feeling ill. He’s drunk the whole bottle in one go and now it sloshes around uncomfortably in his stomach.

“Where are we going?” he asks after a while. His voice is reminiscent of metal grinding against metal; loud and scratchy.

“The toxic dump you inhabit currently.” Mycroft reaches under his seat and lifts a plastic bag and throws it in the backseat. An apple rolls out. “Eat something healthy. Get some rest. Take a bloody bath, you look awful.”

Sherlock counts the fruits in the bag. “I did spend the night in a prison,” he replies, examining an orange. He pokes around a bit more, it gives his brain something else to concentrate on other than the prickling sensation that’s accosting his body. Hmm. Mushrooms. Onions. Tomatoes. Green tea. Interesting.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes, Mycroft, I’ll take a bath.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“I know what you were going to say, and I don’t care.”

Mycroft doesn’t reply, stares straight ahead with his mouth pressed into a thin line. Sherlock’s fingers curl into his jeans; it feels like his head is going to split apart.

“I’m not dragging you back from prison a second time,” Mycroft says after a while. “This self destructive behavior must stop, Sherlock. I am serious about rehab. You need help. I’m running out of options.”

“Drop me off here, I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“You’re missing classes.”

“I’m aware. I’m the one missing them, you see.”

“Cocaine and suppressants are not a good mix. It will cause permanent damage, you know the side effects—“

“I won’t be able to pop out a young ‘un in a few years, what a crying _shame,”_ Sherlock mocks venomously. “Stop the bloody car.”

The car grinds to a smooth halt. “I’ll stop the suppressants.”

“I feel like we’ve had this conversation before.” Sherlock unlocks the door. “Good day, brother. I’ll see you…hmm, next year, perhaps.”

“You should come visit,” Mycroft says quietly before he’s about to shut the door. “Christmas, if you like. Mummy hasn’t seen you in months.”

“I’ll pass.” He steps out. Shuts the door. “Thank you,” he adds. Mycroft doesn’t look at him.

He climbs up the steps, walk inside, locks his door.

Mycroft doesn’t drive away until Sherlock is inside his flat.

 

***

 

Of course, he has the groceries sent in the evening. Someone’s added Jaffa cakes to the mix. Sherlock hates Mycroft with a vengeance.

 

***

The majority of officers in the precinct are dull and foolish. Lestrade is barely competent, but he’s the best of a bad lot, Sherlock supposes. He tells him so when he catches him breaking into a building next week. Lestrade wants to arrest him, but Sherlock laughs and tells him that perhaps they should arrest the person who committed the murder first.

“If the brother has a green ladder,” Sherlock informs him. “You should arrest him.”  
Lestrade’s expression is caught somewhere between fury and barely contained disappointment. The corpse on the other side of the room is vastly interesting. If only Sherlock could have a good look at him, he’d probably be able to pinpoint the killer’s location too.

The other officers in the flat are whispering among themselves. A few of them point at him. Lestrade grabs him by the elbow and steers him out of the sitting room, taking him to the kitchen instead. Dirty dishes are piled up high in the sink. Someone’s been avoiding the washing. Interesting.

“If I see you again, like this,” Lestrade pokes him hard in the chest to get his attention. “I’m arresting you again. I don’t care if your brother bails you out. I’ll put you back inside.”

Sherlock is barely listening.

“Listen to me. Sherlock. Sherlock. That’s your name right?” He taps two fingers against his jaw to turn his head. Sherlock looks at him. They’re almost the same height. He’s always been tall for an omega. “Yeah. So. I need your help. And helping me, it’s good for you. Gives your brain something to do, yeah? But you can’t help me like this. You’re an omega, _and_ you’re an addict. No one will take you seriously. Do you hear me? Clean yourself up. You’re going to die by thirty at this rate.”

Sherlock blinks. He never expected to live long in any case. He wants to tell Lestrade this, that flames that burn brightly go out very quickly, and that he doesn’t care, either way. Instead he grips the officer hard by the shoulder, and grins, all teeth. “Well then, I’ve got around ten years, then, haven’t I, officer?”

 

***

Sherlock meets John Watson a month later.

He wishes he was in a better state of mind when he saw him first, it would have been nice to remember every detail of what he looked like when he did. As it is, morphine makes him slow and it wasn’t a clean mix anyway.

***

Perhaps he should feel guilty about it, about teasing Sebastian. Dangling what he wants in front of his eyes and taking it away. But it gets him what he wants. That's all that matters, isn't it? 

***

"Just let me kiss you once," he says, breath warm against Sherlock's mouth. "Just once, it'll be so good, I promise."

"Maybe," Sherlock taps his index finger against Sebastian's lips. "If you give me something."

***

 Alcohol is mostly tedious; so Sherlock stays clear of it. It makes him slow and stupid and he can’t keep much of it down, anyway. But Sebastian. Sebastian is definitely drunk. He can feel the reek of it coming from his mouth, the haze in his eyes.

“You’re very pretty,” he slurs, taking Sherlock’s wrist and pulling it to his mouth. “Why’d you-you’d smell so much better if you’d just stop taking those suppressants. You’re just so _pretty,_ Sherlock.” He flicks his tongue against his pulse.

“Hmm,” Sherlock replies, bored. “Is your door locked?”

They’re in his bedroom, at one of Sebastian’s ‘parties’ or whatever he chooses to call them. Sebastian is probably the worst kind of Alpha; rich, entitled, spoilt. In a few years his family will find him a suitable omega from a likewise rich, entitled, spoilt family and he’ll spawn a brood of his own. Happy endings for everyone.

“No one will come in,” Sebastian promises him, voice dropping conspiratorially. “I’ll kill them if they do.”

“Really.” Sherlock presses two fingers against his neck. His pulse jumps. Sebastian’s erect cock, nestled against his thigh, twitches as well. He pushes him harder against the wall, cupping his hands around Sherlock’s hips. God, it’s frightfully easy to rile them up.

“Fuck. Yeah. I won’t let anyone touch you,” he noses along the edge of Sherlock’s jaw.

“Very flattering, Seb, really. But you know what I want, so why don’t you give it to me?”

“What about-what about what _I_ want, Sherlock? Hmm?” His hips move restlessly against Sherlock, hardness brushing against the crease between his crotch and his thigh. “You should- you should give me something too.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Seb, honestly, this is getting tedious. Coke first, grope me later.” He pushes him off. Seb grins crookedly at him, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Sherlock crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow at him, expectantly. Oafs, the lot of them. Clueless, lumbering oafs.

Seb huffs a laugh and straightens the collar of his shirt. “Fine,” he smiles, lifting up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Of course.”

Sherlock makes a _well, get on with it,_ gesture with his hand. He feels a little unease prickle at his skin, at the way Sebastian looks at him. Still. Sebastian is drunk, and he is not. He can get out of here should the situation call for it. As it is he watches carefully as Sebastian walks over to his bed and takes his jacket, fishing in the pocket until he brings out a slim, black box.

“I remember our deal, Sherlock,” Sebastian says, taking out the vial and syringe. His movements are precise, careful. “Sometimes it’s frustrating, but really, what can I do?”

Sherlock doesn’t notice anything wrong until—

“Wait,” he barks, but Sebastian is already quite close to him, tapping the syringe twice. “Wait let me look—“

“Oh, you don’t need to look, love, it’s fine, see—“ he takes his wrist, plunges it in. Sherlock hisses a bit.

“No, it’s not the right—“ _not the right colour,_ he wants to say. Slightly discoloured. Pinkish. But Sebastian is already pressing down on the syringe, and whatever is in it is already traveling through his body. It’s cocaine, he knows, at least partly-

“You shouldn’t worry so much,” Sebastian tells him, as if he can somehow understand the horror that is slowly creeping through Sherlock’s body along with some unknown, potentially dangerous substance. He rubs the point where the needle’s pressed in. “Relax.”

Sherlock snatches his arm away from him. Or tries to. He’s beginning to realize that his movements should be quicker, more precise. Instead Sebastian’s fingers are still around his wrist, and he is smirking at him.

“Takes effect quickly,” he says calmly, sliding his hand up Sherlock’s arm, raising gooseflesh. “Doesn’t stay for very long, but then. I won’t need very long.”

“Get-get off,” Sherlock manages to say, and tugs ineffectually. Sebastian cocks his head, smirk still in place. Then he shoves Sherlock, hard, against the wall. The back of his head bangs painfully against it. Sherlock screws his eyes shut. He needs to think. He needs to think- but- but-

_he can’t._

Instead he somehow loses his balance and his legs give away underneath him. He slides halfway down the wall before Sebastian grabs him underneath his arse and somehow props him against the wall like a doll.

“It may have some side effects,” he says absentmindedly, slipping his hands underneath Sherlock’s shirt, fingers traveling over his ribcage. “Don’t worry though, I’ll take care of you.”

“You-“ why is this so difficult? Sherlock feels his heart ram repeatedly against his chest, it hurts, but still normal enough for cocaine- except there is a dull ache somewhere in the vicinity of his abdomen, and suddenly-suddenly- he realizes that Sebastian will be able to make that pain go away. “You- what have you done?” he croaks. He curls his fingers into Sebastian’s collar. Pulls him closer. Buries his nose against his neck. “I want- _I want-“_

 _No I don’t._ He hisses, as if he’s been burnt, and pulls away- tries to disentangle himself from Sebastian, but it feels as though he’s walking through molasses.

“Shhh,” Sebastian says, his hands gripping his ribs tighter. Sherlock’s shirt is hitched up to his chest, his skin is hot, and Sebastian’s fingers are cool against it. He wants more of it. He wants it all over his body, in fact. He wants to strip naked and- what the hell? Sherlock isn’t in heat. He hasn’t gone into heat for over a year. Then why-

Sebastian fists his hand in Sherlock's hair and wrenches his head to the side, mouthing at his neck. He gasps, hips suddenly thrusting up and forward, seeking out friction, wetness gathering in the cleft of his arse, sticky and warm.

“That’s it-“ Sebastian says, inching his hand downward and dipping his fingers into the waistband of Sherlock’s jeans. Sherlock shivers. “You’re such- such a _tease-_ it would never be enough, let me, just let me—“

This feels wrong. He feels sick. He doesn’t want this at all, in fact, he wants Sebastian as far away from his as possible, oh god, what is wrong with his body-

“Excuse me, can I just-“

Sebastian pushes off of him with a grunt, the cloying weight of his body gone. But without Sebastian’s arms around him Sherlock slides to the floor in a heap. His stomach cramps- his hand flies to his abdomen.

“Sorry-“

“Sorry mate, we could use a little bit of privacy-“

“Yeah, sure, I’m just looking for my friend- wait, what’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing, he’s fine. If you don’t mind, mate-“

“He looks sick. What’s he taken?”

Sherlock wants to stand up, wants to tell whoever it is to fuck off and leave him alone and to help him because he feels ready to puke out the contents of his stomach right here. “I’m—I’m not—“ he rasps, unable to finish his sentence.

The door is open, and someone is standing at the door. Short, blond, blue eyes, average build, more on the stocky side- that’s all Sherlock can manage to deduce before he doubles up, on all fours, and starts to retch. Immediately someone is kneeling in front of him, hands on his shoulders- firm but not rough, trying to get him to sit up.

“Hey-hey, take it easy, do you need to go to a bathroom? Do you have some water, we need to get him some water- what the fuck have you given him?”

“Alright, you know what, he’s fine. Why don’t you get out mate, and leave us alone?” Sebastian snarls at the boy(man?) and pulls him away.

“Fine? He’s not fine, he needs a bloody hospital-“

The cramps subside. Sherlock takes a deep breath. The both of them are still fighting. Useless, idiot alphas. He raises a shaking hand and wipes the sweat off his brow. The pain in his abdomen is back again- and with it the horrible need- and Sherlock notices there are two Alphas in the room and suddenly all he wants to do is spread his legs and beg.

Crawl over to them, on all fours, flip over-

This is not happening.

The sudden wave of arousal is so strong Sherlock chokes, twisting his legs together. He hasn’t felt anything remotely close to this in over a year- the suppressants dampen his libido considerably- but now, now, shit-

He’s been through this. He hates it, he hates it, he won’t let this happen again.

“I need-“ he starts to say, and the both of them turn towards him. But there are no tell tale signs that he is going into heat- no flaring nostrils, no low, possessive growls. The blonde one has concern in his eyes. 

He makes as if to go towards Sherlock but Sebastian wrenches him back again by his elbow with a snarl. As if on cue, the blond one rears an arm back and lands a punch on Sebastian’s jaw. “Fuck off,” he tells him calmly. “He’s sick. He needs a doctor.”

Unfortunately Sebastian cannot reply because he’s out cold.

Good.

The other one drops down to his knees in front of him. “Hey. Hey. Are you alright? Listen. Just breathe. Can you tell me if you know what you’ve taken? Can you do that for me?” A cool hand presses against his fevered skin, right underneath his jaw. Sherlock whimpers, stretching his head back, presenting his neck. The boy suddenly snatches his hand back.

“What-are you, are you-“ he sounds panicked.

“No,” Sherlock gasps, reaching forward and grabbing him by the back of his neck and pushing him forward. He smells much better than Sebastian. He should tell him that. He’d like that. Sherlock pulls in deep breaths of him, he smells lovely- a bit like scotch, a bit like butter- Sherlock wants to roll around in it. Sherlock _wants._

He remembers feeling like this, but more, much more. It should have been red-hot, blinding, clawing desire; now Sherlock thinks he could step back, clamp his legs shut, but he doesn't  _want to,_ it's so  _confusing._ He noses his neck, the tendons that stand out, straining. 

The boy is still, so still that Sherlock can feel his Adam’s apple bob skittishly in his throat.

“Okay,” he says quietly, his voice a bit ragged. Something inside Sherlock quivers to hear that tone in his voice. “Okay. It’s just the drugs, alright. I need to take you somewhere safe. Do you know anyone here, someone who you trust- who can take you home?

Everything below his waist aches. “No,” he says honestly, and presses his lips to the place on the boy’ neck where he can feel his pulse jump. He wants to lick his skin. “I don’t- I don’t know what he’s given me. I-“

“Something that’s messing with your hormones,” the boy informs him slowly in his ear. “Okay, listen. My name’s John. John Watson. And I’m going to help you get up now, so you hold on. Alright? Just hold on and we’ll stand up together. It’s fine. You’re fine. I’m going to get you out of here. Christ, this idiot can’t even hold himself in a fight.”

“You- knocked him out,” Sherlock tells him, because he feels like it’s important. John should teach him how to do that. John. What a lovely name. “John’s a lovely name,” he says, because he feels like he should. John should know that he has a lovely name.

“Really? Thanks. Always thought it was rather plain,” John answers, sounding amused. He throws Sherlock’s arm over his shoulder and lifts him up. Sherlock stumbles, grabs hold of the front of John’s jumper.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I-can’t walk. Pro-prop-properly.” John wraps one arm around his waist and hitches him to his side.

“That’s fine. I’ve got you. Alright, is there anything you need to take from here? Wallet? A coat?”

Sherlock looks down at himself. His shirt is half unbuttoned- Sebastian’s work, probably. And his wallet- he’s not sure where it is. “Can you-can you check. My. My-“ he searches for a word. “ _pocket.”_

“Erm. Yeah. Yeah, alright,” John says, and the arm at his waist dips a bit lower and pats gingerly at the pocket at his arse. “I think you’ve got your wallet,” he says. His voice sounds a bit strained. “Right, okay, I think it’s time for us to get out of this room. I don’t want that cock to wake up and start screaming again.”

“Medical student.”

“Sorry, what?”

“You. Med student. Barts. Internship. Hmm. You’re not looking for your friend, you’re looking for your _sister_ ,” Sherlock puts one foot in front of the other. He wonders briefly if this is a bad idea, he doesn’t know who John is, not really, and he could be taking him somewhere that isn’t safe at all.

“What? How the hell did you know that?” John finally brings them out of the room. Music floods down the hall, he can hear the bass, thumping uncomfortably in his ear. His head aches along with the beat.

“I’m smart,” Sherlock tells him, because he is, and because he’s too tired to think of anything smarter to say.

John laughs, a brief huff of laughter. Sherlock is a few inches taller than him. Maybe he could lean over and rest his head on John’s, smell him some more. He smells so good. John should pull him closer, scent him where he wants it. Sherlock wants him very badly. His entire body hurts, but he can’t smell anything on himself, no pheromones, no arousal. The entire sensation feels wrong. John could make him feel better.

“Well, that’s quite…amazing,” he says, and leads him down the hall. Sherlock stumbles again but John grips him tighter along his waist.

“People-don’t…people don’t say that.”

“Really? What do they say then?”

“Piss off.” He pauses. “Someone punched me once.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound very fair. You were probably right anyway.”

“I _was,”_ Sherlock agrees. “You’re smart too, John.”

“Yeah,” John laughs again. “Okay. I need to find my sister. She shouldn’t be here, not at this horrible place.”

Sherlock agrees with John. This is a terrible place. There are idiots _everywhere._ “I think she’s in that room. Clara’ll be here in a mo, she can pick Harry up. But I just need to-“ John leads him across the sitting room, weaving their way through people until he deposits Sherlock on a sofa. There’s someone else on the sofa. Sherlock wants to tell John that he wants to get out of here now- somewhere cool and dark where he can rid of all these clothes.

He bends down to whisper in his ear, hands on his knees. “Just stay here, alright? I’ll be back in a minute. If someone touches you, you shout for me. Okay?” Sherlock notices his hair now- it’s floppy and blonde, stops just at the tops of his ears, but falls messily into his eyes. He wants to turn his head and take the shell of his ear into his mouth. Taste him.

His eyes are very blue. Not particularly gorgeous, but handsome in a pleasant, comforting way.

“Okay,” Sherlock promises.

John leaves, and Sherlock panics for a moment. He want to vomit again. He swallows the feeling down, cups a hand around his pelvis where the heat is gathering. The seat of his jeans feels a bit damp. 

“Well, hello there,” the person next to him says. She has bright red hair, short and spiky. “I’m Megan.” She has her legs up on the sofa, a bottle in her hand.

“Go away,” Sherlock mutters, and curls in on himself.

“ _Rude,”_ she says.

Before Sherlock can show her exactly how rude he can be, he sees John again. He looks concerned, speaking on the phone. He has to push someone out of his way to get to the sofa. “Yeah, alright. Bye. Ta, Clara.”

He pockets his phone and holds out a hand for Sherlock. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

“Your sister?” Sherlock asks. He takes John’s hand. His skin is warm.

“Her girlfriend took her home an hour ago. Could have told me, but good thing I came, yeah?” He wraps an arm around Sherlock’s waist again.

“Oh, so you’re _taken._ Could have told me that, love,” the woman on the sofa says.

“We’re not—“ John starts to say, but he seems to give up.

***

Outside, it is cold. Freezing, actually. Sherlock shivers. John did up his buttons outside in the hall and then threw his own jacket over Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock’s gut tightened at the sudden scent of it; the smell of him is strong and bright in his nose, it smells lovely, Sherlock never wants to take this jacket off.

By the time John takes him outside, his head is spinning again. The road seems to tilt to one side like a seesaw. Sherlock can’t figure out why everyone is still standing, they should all be rolling over to the other side, loosing their balance and falling.

John still holds on tight on his arm, looking for a cab. Sherlock could call one easily, but he can’t seem to talk. His tongue feels swollen. He holds out an arm to grip John’s shoulder, hard. “John, I—“ he swallows. Spinning. Spinning. Black spots dance in front of his eyes. “I think I am going to pass out.”

“What—“ John turns around just as Sherlock pitches forward.

***


	5. Saudade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s fingers are shaking.
> 
> He can’t tell why, even though he’s a genius. Possible answers flit through his mind; anxiety, stress, fear, lack of sleep, withdrawal, early signs of Parkinson’s Disease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MUCH DIALOGUE. Because first meetings, yo.

 

>  
> 
> If ever any beauty I did see,
> 
> Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.
> 
>  -John Donne, The Good Morrow

To be honest, John hadn’t completely dismissed the idea of the bloke passing out. But he had been hoping that if he did, it wouldn’t be on the middle of the street at one am.

He falls forward and John manages a surprised ‘ _oomph!’_ before he catches him around the waist and somehow succeeds in preventing the both of them from falling to a heap together.

“Shit,” he curses, the only expletive he is capable of at the moment, too caught up with the idea of how terrible this looks to any casual observer. Perhaps he should put a sign on his head that says he isn’t a potential rapist.

The boy is heavy in his arms, and John has to use all of his strength to keep him upright. His skin is warm and feverish, and John feels another stab of anger at that stupid fucking _arsehole_ who drugged him. He should have done much more than knocked him out.

The right thing to do would be to call his parents, John thinks. But if he’s a college student the chances are that they won’t be living in the same city. So…he’ll have to take him some place safe himself.

Should he carry him? He’s heavy- but his weight isn’t unbearable. But if he carries him he won’t be able to call a cab. So John holds him tighter, and stands on the edge of the street and raises his arm hoping the cabbie won’t be too suspicious of him.

A cab stops by him in a minute or two, and John has to promise to pay him an extra ten pounds so that he agrees to take them.

“Drank too much,” John jokes. “Bit of a lightweight.”

“Not askin’, mate,” the cabbie replies, and waits impatiently for John to manhandle the unconscious omega into the cab and prop him up so he’s leaning against John’s side. “Where to?”

“Um. Wait a sec,” John would rather not take him to his own flat where he lives with two other blokes and although he’s sure they wouldn’t touch the boy he thinks it still wouldn’t be safe for him. So he has to slip his hand underneath his arse and pull out the boy’s wallet. There’s some cash in it, a Scotland Yard ID card belonging to someone named Gregory Lestrade, and finally…a driver’s license.

_Name: Sherlock Holmes_

_Sex(A): Male Sex(B) Omega_

According to his date of birth, he’s almost twenty. “Baker Street,” John informs him, looking at the address mentioned. He finds a pair of keys stuffed into his pocket when he’s putting his wallet back inside so at least they won’t be stranded inside his building.

The cabbie drives and John checks the boy—Sherlock’s—pulse. It’s unusually fast, that would probably be the cocaine, and his skin is still hot. John knows objectively that he’s an omega, but he can’t smell anything on him, so presumably he’s on suppressants; he wouldn’t have been able to tell if Sherlock hadn’t buried his nose in John’s skin or presented his neck back in the flat. He shivers at the memory, feeling a protective surge of tenderness rise in him.

Damn it. He doesn’t even know him- he’ll drop him back in his flat, tell his neighbors, and then leave. He isn’t his responsibility and he’s done enough.

He pushes some of his thick hair back from his forehead, feeling guilty and a little sick with himself. Christ, he’s really quite pretty. The shifting shadows throw his cheekbones into stark relief; dark eyelashes fanned against his pale skin.

John spots the cabbie staring at Sherlock through the rear mirror and has a three second fantasy about taking his head and smashing it against the driving wheel. His arm around Sherlock tightens, and he smiles at the cabbie while doing so.

_Don’t even think about it, mate,_ the smile says.

The cabbie shifts his gaze.

***

According to his address, Sherlock lives on the second floor. This is going to be slightly difficult, John thinks, standing in the foyer trying vainly to prevent Sherlock from sliding off of him and hitting the floor.

“Well,” he mutters to himself, “No two ways about it,” and he hooks an arm around Sherlock’s knees and his back, and picks him up in his arms. He staggers for a few seconds- Christ, he’s heavy-but manages to climb the first few steps. Sherlock barely stirs, just hangs limply from John’s arms, looking vulnerable and helpless, his head lolling backward. The skin of his neck is so pale it’s almost translucent.

John feel sick thinking about what would have happened to him if he hadn’t decided to step in.

He swallows, pushing his thoughts down. He finally reaches the flat named 221B, and it’s a struggle opening the door with an armful of unconscious omega, but he manages. As soon as they’re both inside, John drops him on to the nearest sofa. Then he drops to the floor himself, leaning against the couch, cross legged and catching his breath.

 He’s knocked the coffee table over on his way.

 He’s inside what is vaguely serving as a sitting room; well, at least it has a sofa and an arm chair and a fire place, which is currently cold and empty. There are books everywhere; piled high in corners, stuffed into bulging bookshelves, teetering precariously on top of a desk on the other side of the room, a few litter the floor. There's a bison head mounted on the wall wearing headphones, a skull on the mantel piece. He turns his head and sees the kitchen, except there’s a sleek microscope on the dining table instead of food, along with chemistry equipment that John’s only seen at the lab back at Bart’s.

He tries to figure out something about Sherlock from the detritus around him, but he draws a blank. All he can think about is Sherlock saying _I’m smart_ , and he agrees with him.

 John should leave. It’s only decent. He’s brought him to his flat and he’s some place safe. He checks his pulse- back to normal, as well as his temperature. The drugs seemed to have messed with his hormones but the effects are clearly waning; he’ll just have to sleep it off. There isn’t much else for John to do.

He’ll just shift Sherlock to his bedroom—except going inside his bedroom seems like an invasion of his privacy. But Sherlock would be uncomfortable on that sofa, wouldn’t he?

He turns around and looks at Sherlock, his head lolling to the side and the steady rise and fall of his chest. He’s still wearing John’s jacket. It doesn’t fit him properly, the sleeves don’t cover his writs. His skin peeks out from under the material, pale and oddly delicate.

John can’t help imagining Sherlock, comatose and limp, shoved up against some dirty wall with a stranger’s mouth on his neck, pushing his legs apart with a rough hand.

***

He finds what is presumably Sherlock’s bedroom down a short hall, and he has to push the door open with his shoulder, placing Sherlock carefully on the bed. The room looks barely lived in; the bed is made, neat and clean, and there isn’t much in the way of furniture. A desk, a closet, a bed. A framed picture of the periodic table mounted on wall. John’s beginning to think Sherlock’s a chemistry student, and probably a really excellent one.

He’s forgotten to take Sherlock’s jacket off; and he feels distinctly like a pervert thinking about it. He has to support Sherlock’s back on his arm while he drags it off his frame. It smells a little different now, a scent that has nothing to do with pheromones. John shrugs into it, and stands there, telling himself over and over that he’s being a creep now and he has to leave; but he still decides to at least take Sherlock’s trainers off and then he throws a blanket over his body.

He heads to the kitchen and after moving through the bio hazardous mess of petri dishes and jars of god knows what, he finds a glass, rinses it out for good measure, and brings a full glass back to Sherlock’s room. He might get thirsty.

Sherlock sleeps on, oblivious, and John leaves the room, but keeps the bedroom door open.

He’s halfway across the sitting room when he stops.

_But what if he needs me_? What if Sherlock wakes up and wonders who the hell put a blanket on him and took off his shoes- what if-what if he gets sick?

_These are dangerous thoughts_ , John thinks.

_I should leave_ , he tells himself.

 ***

He ends up sleeping on the sofa curled up under his jacket.

 ***

 John sleeps for maybe four, five hours before he wakes up spluttering and coughing, his face cold and wet.

“What the fuck-“ he chokes out, wiping his face.

“We clearly did not have intercourse last night. So kindly explain to me what you’re doing on my sofa.”

John blinks the water out of his eyes and sees Sherlock looking down at him, holding a (now empty) glass of water.

John stares at him for a few more seconds, unable to reconcile the limp, helpless boy he had to carry through the door yesterday with the one looking at him coldly right now.

“I- I can explain,” he says quickly, holding up his arms, palms facing Sherlock. “Give me a second.”

“Very well,” Sherlock replies, putting down his glass on the coffee table. He crosses his arms over his chest. His…bare chest. John notices only now that he’s not wearing a shirt, just a dressing gown pulled over his shoulders and the pair of jeans he was in last night, hanging off boyishly narrow hips. His hair is uncombed and messy, curling at his nape. Sherlock clears his throat and John has to flick his gaze away hurriedly, sitting up and rubbing his neck. It’s stiff.

“Do you always wake people up like that?” John grouses.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Only strange men who fall asleep on my sofa.”

“Right. So you don’t remember last night.”

“Evidently not,” Sherlock sits down on the edge of the coffee table, hands at his sides, one leg bent at the knee and foot resting on the sofa. “Enlighten me.”

“Nothing?” John runs a hand through his hair. It’s probably looks like a mess. _He_ probably looks like a mess. Sherlock, however, despite having woken up from a drunken stupor, looks…perfect. Disheveled and unkept, but still somehow attractive. 

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock replies slowly, studying his face carefully. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

John licks his lips. “I- I uh- ran into you. Last night. At that bloke’s flat. I was looking for my sister. And then I saw you. Some bloke- I’m not sure who he is, really. Dark hair, pale, awful teeth, awful personality too. He, well. He was making a pass at you-“ he swallows. Soldiers on. “and it didn’t look like you particularly wanted it. So I knocked him out and decided to take you home, except you passed out on the way so…” _so I carried you up the stairs and put you in your bed and looking at you like that made me fantasize a bit._

“Sebastian is always making a pass at me,” Sherlock tells him, eyes narrowed.

“Yeah, well, you were high as fuck last night and he’d mixed something into your solution so you couldn’t get your hands off him,” John explains. _Or me,_ he thinks, remembering Sherlock’s cold nose pressed to his skin, his mouth. To his horror his cock twitches in his jeans. Shit.

Sherlock abruptly sits back, features turning blank, as if a shutter has been closed over his face. “That’s impossible,” he says blandly. “I would have noticed.”

John has a sudden urge to comfort him- to put an arm around his narrow shoulders and tell him that’s it’s alright, everyone makes mistakes, Sebastian is a bastard- and while he wouldn’t have hesitated to do it to him yesterday, Sherlock looks very different now. The softened edges are gone, as is the dazed look in his eyes. Now they’re clear and bright, glinting suspiciously, and although he looks tired, John can easily imagine Sherlock breaking his fingers if he touched him where it wasn’t wanted.

“You were high, so…” he gives a half hearted shrug.

Sherlock blinks a few times, shakes his head. “Did—“ his fingers twitch a bit. “Did he-did we…”

“No,” John says firmly. “No, it didn’t come to that.”

Sherlock nods, as if he were expecting it. He stands up, dressing gown falling to his shins. John is suddenly aware of how close he’s standing to him. The coffee table doesn’t offer much in the way of space and John is level with Sherlock’s navel. His skin is pale and smooth, flawless in a way that makes John wonder what it would feel like against his finger tips. He clears his throat, looks away.

He suddenly hears the click of a lighter and he looks up, watches Sherlock light a cigarette and put the lighter back in his dressing gown pocket. He takes a few drags before he looks down at John and says, “I should probably thank you, then.”

He doesn’t look particularly happy about it.

“It’s…it’s fine.”

“And apologise for waking you up in such an impolite fashion,” he continues, but by now he’s snaked his way out of the narrow space and is heading towards the kitchen. John watches as he brings down two mugs from a shelf, cigarette hanging precariously from his lips.

“If you don’t mind, I’m making tea.”

***

 Sherlock’s fingers are shaking.

 He can’t tell why, even though he’s a genius. Possible answers flit through his mind; anxiety, stress, fear, lack of sleep, withdrawal, early signs of Parkinson’s Disease.

He brings the mugs down and feels foolish and slightly ridiculous. He should be kicking this man out of his flat. His mouth feels bitter and awful. It isn’t true that he doesn’t remember last night. He remembers parts. And what he remembers make his cheeks flush with heat and his gut tighten uncomfortably. And what he doesn’t, he can deduce; John must have carried him upstairs in his arms, must have laid him on his bed. Taken off his shoes, pulled a blanket over him. He doesn’t know how he feels about it. Should he feel angry? Violated?

Maybe he shouldn’t have thrown water at him. That was rather rude, wasn’t it?

“Do you mind if I..er…use your loo?” John asks from his living room. He even remembers his name, which he hasn’t even mentioned yet. Sherlock feels sick.

“No,” he replies curtly. “Not a problem.” He hears John get up from the springy sofa, make his way down the hall and dull thud as the door clicks shut.

He lets out a sharp breath that sounds more like a sob, grips the edge of the sink hard.

He can still remember what John smelled like.

Warm and buttery and so much more different than any other Alpha, maybe that’s why he’s having such an intense reaction to it.

_Pressing his nose against John’s neck- pheromones-his scent, the way he-_

Sherlock swallows.

Ridiculous. Stupid, foolish, idiotic. He’s just some boy who picked him up from Sebastian’s—

Fuck.

Sherlock’s insides curl up. He feels like he’s going to fall down, and the idea seems oddly pleasant; lying down on the cool floor, away from the pesky thoughts of Sebastian’s unwelcome hands on his body. He should have realized, he should have known, he should never have teased Sebastian so much, now look where that’s landed him—

“Are you alright?”

Sherlock flinches. He turns around, and John is standing at the doorway to the kitchen, looking concerned. Sherlock remembers John looking at him like that last night, and the way his heart picks up at John’s gaze depresses him considerably.

“I’m fine,” he says quietly, feeling miserable and guilty. “You can sit there if you want,” he gestures to the table with his chin.

“Alright.” John takes a seat. Sherlock moves to the fridge and opens it, bending and peering to see if he’s got any milk. He does. Mycroft sent groceries last week.

“Is that a head?”

“What?” Sherlock stands up straight and looks at John.

“A head. In your fridge.”

“What? Oh,” he says rather stupidly. “Yes, it’s a head.”

John nods, as if he’s trying to make sense of that. “Why is there a head in your fridge?” He doesn’t sound disgusted, or frightened. Curious, and a trifle amused. He sits with his legs spread far apart, and the chair is turned so it’s facing Sherlock, his elbow resting on the table. His shirt is wrinkled and rumpled from where he slept on the sofa.

“I’m checking the coagulation of saliva after death,” Sherlock quickly takes out the carton of milk and closes the door shut.

“I was thinking you’d say, _because I’m a serial killer,_ and I’d be cursing myself for sleeping in the same house as a murderer,” John smiles, and it’s a crude, flirtatious thing. Sherlock feels his cheeks heat up in spite of himself. Is he being chatted up? He’s not sure.

“That would make for a far more interesting morning,” he replies, pouring milk into the steaming mugs. “And how do you know I’m not a serial killer? Hardly something I would tell you.” He puts a mug in front of John.

John smiles again, and Sherlock wants to catalogue it. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s made someone smile that much. And John’s smile is particularly lovely. He watches as he blows on his tea before he sips it; thin lips, but nicely shaped. His hair is longish; it touches just the tops of his ears at the front, but curls up slightly at his nape. It’s ash blonde; Sherlock wants to run it between his finger tips to see what it feels like.

From a particularly scientific stand point, obviously.

“I’m guessing if you wanted to kill me, you would have done that by now. I hope you haven’t poisoned my tea.”

“You’re right. Killing you would be easy. But no, not poison. Not interesting enough. Not in this case, at least. It would be easily traceable. And you’re a medical student. You might notice.”

“Should I be flattered or scared?” John raises an eyebrow at Sherlock over the rim of his cup.

“Your choice,” Sherlock tells him.

John laughs then, and Sherlock feels his own lips twitch. John’s laughter is infectious, he finds himself chuckling into his cup.

“I’m sorry, this is ridiculous,” John says, between spurts of mirth. “I was going to apologise to you and everything, but here I am, flirting. Christ, I’m a right prick.”

“For what?” Sherlock asks, but he really means to ask, _are you really flirting with me?_

“It was a bit creepy of me to stay over night,” John says sheepishly. “And I’m really sorry if I overstepped. I just- I was just worried you might need help, and I couldn’t leave you like that. I’m honestly surprised you haven’t kicked me out yet.”

“You’re assuming I didn’t consider that.”

“Did you?”

“Of course. But you’re still here, so you needn’t be worried.” Sherlock opens a new file in his mind palace, names it _John Watson_ and catalogues the shape of John’s smile, and the way he takes his tea.

He feels sick with himself for doing it. For wanting to do it.

“I’m here for the tea,” John informs him cheerfully, and raises his mug. “But I should leave soon…my roommates will be looking for me.”

“Two of them,” Sherlock notes. “Both betas. One of them…has a dog. And you play clarinet. And you’re not very good at it. You should take up something easier. Rugby should be enough to keep you occupied. Clearly you’re not musically inclined, so- _oh._ It was to impress someone- no-“ he pauses, narrows his eyes. “You had a crush on your teacher.”

The tips of John’s ears glow red. Sherlock gives him a slow smile.

“Yeah, you did some of that last night,” John says, embarrassed, but grinning. “It’s pretty amazing. How do you do it?”

“You think it’s amazing?” Sherlock cocks his head at him. John Watson thinks he’s amazing. “People don’t normally use that word.”

_Amazing._

**_/_ ** **əˈmeɪzɪŋ/**

_Amazing; key: adjective_

_-very surprising, especially in a way that makes you feel pleasure or admiration_

_-an amazing achievement/discovery/success/performance_

_synonyms; astonishing, astounding, confounding, confusing, perplexing, bewildering, stupendous, wonderful, surprising, marvelous, prodigious, portentous, miraculous—_

“Really? What do they say?”

Sherlock blinks at him. “What they say isn’t appropriate for polite company.”

_~~Fuck off freak stupid whore idiot get away from me shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you slut weirdo freak freak freak freak~~ _

John looks angry, shocked; it confuses Sherlock for a moment before he realises neither of those emotions are directed at him. John is angry at another party, angry- why? Because they didn’t appreciate Sherlock? Why? Why would it make him angry? It doesn’t make sense. Why doesn’t it make sense? Sherlock wants to ask him, wants to shake his shoulders and figure out why he’s becoming so rapidly obsessed with this clearly unremarkable person.

“Maybe they’re jealous of you,” John offers, eyes still hard. “Some people are like that. Can’t see someone else being smarter than them, especially an omega.”

Sherlock feels his stomach drop.

John knows.

_Well, of course he knows. He dropped you home last night,_ his mind supplies, but he can’t help the way a flush creeps up his neck. He doesn’t have to wonder how John knows, he can remember clawing his fingers into John’s shirt and trying to scent him.

“I’ll take that,” he says, his tone suddenly brusque. John notices, looking up in alarm as Sherlock grabs his empty mug and sets them hard in the sink. It’s a wonder they don’t shatter. Sherlock would prefer if they did. It would make them forget all about how idiotic Sherlock is and they could concentrate on something else.

“Hey, Sherlock, listen—“ John starts. He hears the scrape of the chair against the floor as he pushes it away.

“Don’t,” Sherlock turns towards him and fixes him with a glare.

John holds up his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice quiet and contrite. Sherlock hates it. “I’m sorry I found out the way I did, I honestly didn’t mean to invade your privacy, I swear. I know you keep it a secret, and I understand why. I’m really sorry, Sherlock, and I won’t mention it again.”

Sherlock leans against the sink, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s not your fault,” he says, trying to sound calm. “I-I should have been more responsible.”

He hears John sigh in relief, probably grateful that Sherlock isn’t shouting at him. “Everyone makes mistakes,” he says.

“I’m not everyone,” Sherlock snaps, eyes open.

“Just because you’re smarter than the rest of us doesn’t mean you’re not human,” John rejoins patiently, and Sherlock wants to throw something at him. Or climb into his lap and kiss the patience out of him. Either would work.

“I was reckless. And I-I shouldn’t have been reckless with Sebastian. I should have known. I should have figured it out.”

“Sherlock,” John says, and his voice is soft, as if he’s speaking to a wounded animal. And Sherlock should normally hate it; but he finds himself responding to it anyway- he has to fight the urge to bend his head and take the comfort that John is offering. “It’s not your fault,” he continues, and curls a hand around Sherlock’s bicep. His palm is warm. Sherlock feels it through the satin. “It really isn’t.”

Sherlock looks down at him, ( he’s around 5’6.5”, about six inches shorter than Sherlock) at the kindness in John’s gaze. It isn’t cloying, or stifling; John doesn’t push his way into his personal space and demand attention. Sherlock gives it him of his own accord. “Maybe you should have been more careful, yeah, but only a fucking wanker would take advantage of you like that. Don’t blame yourself for this.”

Sherlock is silent for a few moments. He can feel his heart beat steadily against his chest.  _thud. thud. thud._

_"_ I've never met anyone quite like you before," he finally says, and John grins.

“Because there _isn’t_ anyone quite like me.” He takes his hand away from Sherlock, and then gently pushes him out of the way. “Let me wash that.”

“What?”

John turns on the tap and starts rinsing the mugs. “You made the tea, I’ll wash them. It’s only polite.” Is he changing the subject? Why? Does he know it makes Sherlock uncomfortable? Is he being _nice?_

“Politeness is boring,” Sherlock replies automatically. John laughs.

He puts them on the counter to dry. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“You’re not disappointing at all.”

John looks surprised, turning towards him with a rather bashful smile. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me since last night.”

Sherlock responds with a smile of his own. “I’m not nice.”

“Now don’t ruin my impression of you,” John jokes, wiping his wet hands on his jeans. “But while it lasts—“ he digs his hands into his pocket and emerges with a pen. It doesn’t have a cap, and the ink is almost over. John shakes it, and then grabs Sherlock’s hand.

“What—“

John is scribbling something down on his skin. The nib tickles. “You could call me. Later. Sometime. Anytime. If you need help again. If you just want to go out for coffee.”

“Coffee,” Sherlock says disdainfully. “How tedious.”

“We’ll find something interesting enough for you then.”

“Do you really want to go out with a junkie, John?”

“We’re not going out,” John says, unmindful of Sherlock’s snark, pocketing his pen. “I’m asking you as a friend. Unless you want me to ask you out.”

Sherlock just raises his eyebrows.

“Shit. Do you have a mate?” He’s blushing. Actually blushing. Sherlock continues to look at him, amused.

“You’re not bonded, then, right?”

_~~I’m flattered by your interest but I must tell you I’m-~~ _

_~~Not interested~~ _

_~~Not looking for anything right now~~ _

_~~It’s not you it’s me~~ _

_~~I’m not good enough for you, I will ruin you, I'm just suited for one kind of thing; you don’t want me, people have wanted me before and it hasn’t ended well~~ _

“Go home, John,” Sherlock tells him mildly, clenching his hand into a fist where it’s at his side.

“Yeah. Yeah, I should be going. You’re feeling fine, right? I didn’t even ask you. Sorry.”

“I’m fine.”

“Fever? Nausea? Vomiting?” Sherlock gives him a look and John purses his lips. “Yeah, I’ll be out of your hair now.”

He grabs his coat and swings it over his shoulder, and before he leaves, he smiles brightly at Sherlock like Sherlock’s his..his _mate,_ or something, and Sherlock feels furious with him. For making him _want._

When the door clicks shut, he runs his palm underneath the tap and viscously rubs at his skin until the numbers are gone.

It would have been immensely satisfying; cathartic, even; if only he hadn't already committed them to memory.

 ***

 It occurs to John only once he’s outside that he hadn’t told Sherlock his name. He’d told him yesterday, and by his own admission he hadn’t remembered much. But he remembered his name.

He remembered his _name,_ and he has no idea why that should make him so unreasonably happy.

***


	6. Bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The nature of my-what? Relationship? We don’t have one. I met him once.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so it's almost been a year and I can explain...  
> I clearly didn't think this through.  
> Anyway, this chapter is more of a filler than anything else, which is why I would understand if you feel unsatisfied with this after waiting for ages...I really am sorry, guys. I've just been really busy and writing had taken a backseat. Although I can't promise that updates will be regular, I will definitely take less time to post the next one. But I promise I won't leave this hanging. Our boys have a long, angst filled way to go, and I'm really excited about where I'm taking them. 
> 
> It's been a long day and I had to push myself to churn out this chapter, so I really do hope you like it. 
> 
> PM or hit me up on my tumblr if you wanna moan about season 4, complain about my updates or just need someone to talk to.

 

 

> _in the rain-_  
>  darkness,     the sunset  
>  being sheathed i sit and  
>  think of you
> 
> _e.e. Cummings_

 

 

 

 

The dream starts, as they’ve all been starting, with the dark haired boy’s smile. Usually these kind of dreams aren’t too detailed, either they’re ludicrous situations that would never conceivably happen (because they’re too unrealistic or rather exploitive) or they simply start with John’s cock in someone’s arse.

This time the object of his lust smiles; knife bright, eyes sparkling, and he says something to him, something John can’t hear because he’s too busy thinking about the way his throat looks so delicate, so untouched, makes him think about what it would look like after John’s had his mouth on him.

But John doesn’t kiss him first- he holds his hand, laces their fingers together until he can feel the warmth of his palm sliding against his. Sherlock laughs, mouth wide, eyes scrunched up, hair falling across his forehead. John can’t remember what he says, only that it makes Sherlock smile and fuck if he hasn’t seen anything more gorgeous. Then John is kissing him, tasting the honey-rosewater sweetness of him, the way his body goes pliant and limp under him, and he’s tickling Sherlock, drawing the laughter out of him-

God, then he’s buried in him to the hilt, he’s moaning and gasping and clawing at the sheets-John has a hand wrapped lightly around his throat while he thrusts into him, an act of ownership, of _you belong to me, and I belong to you,_ and Sherlock, Sherlock is crying out his name and _give it to me, John-_

 

John wakes up, sweating and panting.

Fuck.

He stares at the ceiling, the sheets wrapped tightly around his legs. This is the third time this week he’s another intensely weird, intensely sexual dream about Sherlock and it’s honestly not doing anything for him. Sherlock hasn’t called or contacted him and John can only assume Sherlock doesn’t want anything to do with him. That’s fine. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s just dreamt about fucking him and his cock is hard enough to burst through his pyjamas.

He feels oddly like a voyeur, as if thinking about Sherlock that way is out of bounds- he doesn’t even _know_ him, and sure, he’s pretty- very pretty- but it must be creepy to fantasize about someone you’ve only just met.

He takes a deep, shaky breath, his hand curling over his erection. His hips jerk, and Sherlock’s bright, silver eyes flash before his face. That mouth. That fucking mouth.

 

.

***

“You alright, mate?” Craig asks him over breakfast, concerned. John looks at him over the rim of his mug.

“I’m fine,” he answers. “Just...tired.” He rubs his eyes for emphasis.

It’s true- he is. He was too afraid to fall asleep and slip into another dream about Sherlock, and waking up, feeling even worse than before.

Craig looks unconvinced, but doesn’t say anything. “Well, we’ve got to leave now if we want to make it to class.”

John washes the mugs quickly, leaves them upside down on the counter to dry. He’s got things to do. No point pining after someone he might (won’t) meet again. It’s tempting to simply land up at his flat, he knows where he lives- but that would be the worst possible thing to do, so John slips his bag over his shoulder and tries not to think about it.

 

***

John decides to walk home alone. He didn’t think about Sherlock much all day- classes were distracting, it made him tired. But now that he doesn’t have cadaver fluids smeared over his hands and demanding his attention, he keeps asking himself why he didn’t take Sherlock’s number when he had the chance. What a wasted opportunity.

 

Suddenly, with a prickling sensation, John turns around. A sleek black car drives slowly beside him, at a snail’s pace. The car draws to a halt when John stops, staring at it.

“What the-”

His mobile buzzes. He takes it out, flicks open the new message.

_Get in the car._

A second later-

_Mr. Watson._

John’s heart thuds uncomfortably in his chest. He looks down at the message and at the car again.

“I think not,” he mutters under his breath, slips his phone into his pocket again, and continues walking.

The car follows him.

“For God’s sake,” he breathes, considers running. The car would probably outrun him. Not to mention the fact that he has no idea who is inside the car.  He takes an irritated breath. This was decidedly not what he wanted when he meant that he needed a distraction.

His phone buzzes again. Maybe he shouldn’t reply to the message at all. Some wanker was playing a stupid joke on him. Though why he’d (or she) go to such lengths- that was an expensive car.

Curiosity gets the better of him, however, and he checks the new message.

 

_Don’t be stupid, John._

 

He knows his name. John stops again, turns around to glare angrily at the car, which has also stopped.

“What do you want,” he demands.

The door opens, and someone steps out. A woman. A very- pretty woman. John stares at her, can’t control his conditioned sniffing. But she doesn’t smell like anything. Not an alpha, definitely.

She’s texting, her eyes on her mobile, and when she looks up she shoots him a bland smile. “Get in, Mr. Watson.”

“Who- who are you?”

“That’s not important, Mr. Watson. Get in.” She says it with the air of someone who knows they won’t be disobeyed. She’s a little scary. Without waiting for a reply, she gets back inside the car, keeping the door open.

John stands on the pavement for a few more seconds, wondering how his morning has suddenly morphed into some bad version of a Bond movie. He’s not about to get into some stranger’s car, no matter how pretty that woman was-

 

Except he does, and then his phone chirps again:

 

_Thank you, Mr. Watson._

 

***

This day was definitely getting weirder.

Whoever the woman was- she said her name was Anthea- but John was quite sure she was lying- had dropped him off at an abandoned car park, and left, still tapping away at her phone.

John stands there for a minute, wondering if he should just make a run for it- when someone calls his name behind him.

 

“Mr. Watson.”

 

He turns around, and there is a man in front of him, smiling at him insincerely. John notices his eyes first: bright silver; achingly familiar. But these ones are different. Nothing knife-sharp about them- his gaze is cool, calculating, someone who is used to intimidating people.  
Well, John’s not going to let himself be intimidated.

“Yeah, that’s my name, well done. Also, who the hell are you?”

The man tilts his head, smiles like he finds John highly amusing. He’s dressed in an expensive suit- manicured hands, the beginnings of a paunch around his middle. Looks a few years older than him.

“An interested party,” he replies smoothly.

“Interested in what?” John looks around, wonders if he’s going to be murdered here. The man continues to smile.

“What is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?”

John’s head whips around. “The nature of my-what? _Relationship?_ We don’t have one. I met him once.”

He raises his eyebrows. “And yet within the course of that one day you picked him up from whatever cesspool he had been visiting, followed him home, and stayed the night. Sherlock never lets anyone stay the night. Unless he was coerced, Mr. Watson, I see no reason why you should have been there. Shall I make my question any clearer?”

John swallows. Narrows his eyes at the man. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“It could be.”

“It really couldn’t.”

For a moment he thinks the man is finally at a loss- he glares at John, but only for a second- before schooling his expression back into one of polite indulgence. He puts one hand into his pocket.

“Sherlock is very clever,” he tells John. “I wouldn’t be wrong to say that perhaps the only person cleverer than him is standing here in front of you.”

“Is there a point to any of this?”

“A point? Why yes, Mr. Watson, I always have a point. He steps closer to him, one fluid movement until John’s personal space is completely eclipsed. John has a feeling it’s done with the intention of forcing him to step back, but he stays where he is.

“I’d remind you to watch yourself, that’s all.”

“Who the _hell_ are you?” John asks again, tilting his head up to glare at him. John knows he’s short, but he knows he doesn’t have to be any taller to get this git out of his face.

“I told you-”

His words are cut off by the sound of John’s mobile chirping. It echoes. John ignores the man’s offended expression and takes out his phone to check his messages.

It’s from Sherlock.

 

_Are you available today?_

_SH_

 

John is aware that he’s probably grinning like an idiot at the screen. Sod this fake James Bond ponce- Sherlock just asked if he was _available._ He quickly types out a reply:

 

_Absolutely. What do you have in mind?_

 

He hopes it doesn’t sound too suggestive. Does it? Well, it’s been sent.

“Am I distracting you, Mr. Watson?”

John looks up. “No, ‘course not, I’m all ears. You were threatening me a second ago. You can go on, if you want.” He grins.

The man looks appalled at John’s callous behaviour. Before either of them can say anything, John’s phone chirps again.

 

_Anything, really._

_SH_

 

John replies.

 

_Give me a place and I’ll be there as soon as I can._

_Btw, I’m with someone who says he’s your arch enemy._

_Do people have arch enemies?_

_Ps why do you sign your texts_

 

“Mr. Watson, I do not mean to threaten you-”

“Oh yeah, mate, you do,” John assures him, wondering if he should just walk away.

This time he looks furious. Before he can use another thinly-veiled threat, another mobile rings. Clear, default. They both look at each before the man rolls his eyes and slips his mobile out of his pocket.

 

He doesn’t get a chance to fit a word in- John can hear the sound of static as someone shouts at him from the other end of the line. Mycroft looks up to the ceiling as if begging for divine intervention.

John watches with a growing sense of amusement.

“I haven’t done anything to him, what kind of person do you think I am?” he snaps.

More static.

“I’m only being- yes, alright, _alright!”_  he slides the phone down his ear and thrusts it towards John.

“He wants to speak to you.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Just take the phone.”

John does. “Hello?” he asks tentatively.

“Hello, John. I see you’re in bit of a spot.”

John almost closes his eyes so he can savour the sound of Sherlock’s deep voice. “I’m fine,” he replies. “How do you know this man?

“He’s my brother. His name is Mycroft Holmes and he’s probably the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet.”

“Your- what?”

“I said he’s my brother.”

‘I heard you the first time. I just- he doesn’t seem very-”

Mycroft looks expectantly at him, as if he’s waiting for John to use a wrong word.

-”brotherly,” he finishes. Mycroft rolls his eyes.

“Tell him to sod off and walk away. He can’t do a thing to you.”

“I’m not scared of him. Hang on- didn’t you say he was the most dangerous-”

“Trust me, John. He won’t lay a finger on you. Go on, tell him to sod off, I’d love to hear it.”

John lifts his gaze to Mycroft, smiling. “Mycroft, is it?” he asks. “Yeah, well. Sod off.”

Mycroft’s lip curls in disgust. “You’re not very frightened of me, are you?”

John laughs. “You’re not very frightening.”

“Oh that was good, John, very clever,” Sherlock encourages him. “You can also tell him to keep his big nose out of my business or I’ll go off the map and he’ll never be able to find me.”

“Yeah, you can tell him that. I’m leaving. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Silence for a few seconds. “I- I’m looking forward to it, John.”

John, still smiling, cuts the call and hands Mycroft’s fancy phone back to him.

“You’re either very brave or very stupid,” he comments, flicking through his phone before pocketing it. “Though honestly speaking, they’re quite the same thing.”  
“You can relax...Mr. Holmes.”

“No I can’t, Mr. Watson.” Mycroft fixes him with a cold stare while his mouth presses into a hard line. “I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again. Watch your step.”

John knows, this time, that it’s not an idle threat. For all his unnecessary drama, Mycroft Holmes looks like someone who means business, and he doesn’t think any version of “You don’t have to worry” will work on him.

“I’ll- I’ll keep that in mind,” he tells him, voice level, and leaves.

***

 

He feels like a huge tiger in a tiny cage, stifled and too warm and itching to get out of his own skin. He wraps his own dressing gown tighter around himself and curls up on his armchair in front of the fire. His feet are cold but he’s too lazy to get himself some socks. He can’t believe he texted John. Actually texted him. And John _agreed._ To meet him.

He checks his phone again, just to re read his messeges.

He sends one to Mycroft to remind him to back off.

 

_Keep your fat nose out of my business._

_SH_

 

Mycroft replies immediately.

 

_Be careful._

_MH_

 

Sherlock scoffs, puts his phone away.

 

He feels a little pathetic, but there was just something about John Watson that he couldn’t let go of. Previous relationships- if he could call him that- had ended badly because of his inability to control his feelings. Sherlock doesn’t want that to happen again. He doesn’t want to feel the crippling sting of rejection, of being pushed out of someone’s life when they’ve had enough. Or people crawling back because they think you’re still in the same place, waiting.

Sherlock is tired of waiting.

 

He tells himself that it’s a distraction; and it is, to certain extent. He doesn’t feel like taking anything- not blindingly so. The want still itches beneath his skin, but he shoves it down.

 

Someone rings the bell.

 

Sherlock nearly trips over himself in his haste to get to the door. He’s aware he looks a mess, and part of it is because he doesn’t want to make himself go through that again either- trying to impress someone who might not care three days later.

 

When he opens the door, it isn’t John.

“Get out,” he tells Sebastian, almost shakily, but Sebastain stops the closing door with his foot.

“I’m here to apologise,” he says tightly.

“I don’t want an apology,” Sherlock says between his teeth. He doesn’t need this- not now, not when he’s just managed to convince himself that maybe, maybe it wasn’t his fault. Sebastian’s voice brings his own stupidity to the light, makes him want to do anything for him if it means getting something in return.

“Let me in, Sherlock, please.”

Sherlock can defend himself. He’s not drunk, or high, and if he lets Sebastian talk and purge himself of his self-inflicted guilt he might leave him alone.

“Fine,” he decides, and opens the door wider.

Sebastian steps in, as always, with the confidence and grace of someone who is used to having doors opened for him. Sherlock puts distance between them immediately. Sebastian shuts the door behind him, and Sherlock feels stifled and unsafe, even in his own flat.

“I, er,” his eyes flick down Sherlock’s body, quick and nervous, as if he’s afraid of being caught. Sebastian is well dressed, hair combed and shirt pressed, and is missing a class at uni just to come to meet him. It doesn’t hide the purpling bruise around the corner of his eye, spreading from his temple to the crest of his cheekbone.

Coffee this morning for breakfast, nothing else- took a tube instead of his car. Sherlock wants to smack his head to stop the stream of deductions.

“Sebastian,” he says evenly. “You don’t have to apologise.”

Sebastian smiles at him in reply, though the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve been ignoring my texts. Does this mean- ah-” he clears his throat. “You don’t want our arrangement anymore?’

“I never said that,” Sherlock says quickly.

Sebastian’s eyebrow goes up. “No?”

They’re still standing close to the door. Sebastian steps closer to him, Sherlock takes a step backward. Sebastian notices the movement, smirks at Sherlock’s discomfort.

“I have a gift.”

Sherlock swallows. His eyes track Sebastian’s hand- slipping into his trouser pocket and taking out a plastic bag, tied off at the top. He takes Sherlock’s wrist, presses a kiss there, before winking at him and closing his fingers around the bag.

“Your favourite,” he continues. “Consider this an apology. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock feels a faint buzzing under his skin. The siren call of habit. He turns around, away from Sebastian’s knowing smile, and shoves the bag under sofa cushions. It’ll stay there until he needs it.

“Let’s not pretend like this a gift,” he counters, his back still to Sebastian.

“If you say so, love.”

“Whatever you want,” he goes on, taking a deep breath. “But not now.”

He can feel Seb closer to him now, standing right behind him, one hand curls around his shoulder as he pulls Sherlock back gently.

“I said-”

“I heard what you said.” Mouth pressing lightly beneath his ear. Sebastian sniffs him to his heart’s content. “I’ll keep what you said in mind.”

Sherlock swallows down the bile rising in his throat. This wasn't a gift, it was a reminder. How he wish he could push it back into his hands and tell he didn't him or his stupid gift. Instead he stands rigid as Sebastian's tongue slide down his neck.

"Stop," he says. "Stop."

Sebastian pulls away, but the grip on his shoulder tightens, almost painful. "Listen, you-"

The bell rings.

Sherlock elbows Sebastian somewhere in the vicinity of his chest, pushes him back. Sebastian swears at him.

“You-” panic stems in his gut. What would John think, if he saw Sebastian here? Fuck. John is never going to see him again.

“Me?” Sebastian prompts, confused. He looks at the door and back to Sherlock. “Who the hell is it? The police? Did you fucking call the police?”

Sherlock takes a moment out of his panic to stare at Sebastian, dumb founded. “Are you really that stupid?”

Sebastian looks offended. “I was simply-”

“No, it’s not the police-”

The bell rings again.

He groans, scrapes a hand across his face. Sebastian is too dumb for Sherlock to explain to him the mechanics of the situation, and too stubborn to leave through the fire escape. Knocking him out is out of the question, it would take too much time to hide his body. The only solution available to him is to let John in and find some acceptable way to explain why the man who technically assaulted him (from john’s perspective) is doing in his room.

“Forget it,” Sherlock mutters darkly, and moves towards the door. He wishes he was wearing something better.

When he opens it, John is standing on his doorstep, looking nervous and lovely. His hair looks neater then when he had last seen it.

Sherlock somehow closes the door halfway and squeezes his body halfway outside. John’s look of adorable happiness turns to one of confusion.

“My flat is in a mess,” Sherlock tells him. John frowns.

“That’s..fine,” he replies. “I- ugh, didn’t really expect you to get back to me.”

“Neither did I,” Sherlock blurts out. He regrets it immediately. “That is to say-”

“Sherlock, what the bloody hell--”

John’s frown deepens. “Do you- do you have somebody in the flat with you?”

Sherlock shuts his eyes, a frustrated exhale escaping his mouth. “Not exactly,” he says tightly.

Suddenly he feels the brush of a body against his hip, and he almost loses his balance as someone wrenches open the door.

John’s gaze lifts to look straight as Sebastian. For a few seconds, it’s obvious he can’t place him. Except eventually he does, and his lips turn down in a look of utter disgust.

“I know you,” he says. Practically a snarl.

John advances towards him, Sherlock notices his hand balled up at his side as if he’s about to punch him. He steps between them, alarmed. “John, no-”

“No, let him,” Sebastian says smoothly, and pulls Sherlock away by the back of dressing gown. “I was drunk then, but I’m not-”

Sherlock doesn’t even have time to stop John from grabbing Sebastian by the lapel of his shirt and slamming him head first into the wall outside. Nostrils flaring, eyes wide- he wrenches Sebastian’s arm behind and pins it against his back. Sebastian’s teeth are bared in a snarl, he tries to push John off but John is stronger than he looks.

He can smell them both- strong and uncomfortable.

“Stop,” he says. No one hears. “Stop, John, _stop.”_

“I should have done more than that,” John hisses against his ear. “Nice bruise.”

“Take your hands off me, you fucking-” Sebastian struggles. “I’ll fucking have you put in prison-”

“For God’s sake, enough!” Sherlock shouts this time. John looks up at him, one eyebrow raised.

“This dick tried to-”

“I know what he tried to do. I was _there,”_ Sherlock spits. “Now let go of him. There’s no point.”

John doesn’t look happy about it. His pupils are still dilated, a flush creeping down his neck. Sherlock wants to cry. He doesn’t want John to see him like this, as someone who constantly needs protecting. He doesn’t want _John_ to see him only out of a sense of worry, out of a fear that someone or the other will be propositioning him again.

John relents, releasing Sebastian with a grunt. Sebastian turns around immediately, but he’s evidently in too much pain to do anything except try to stare John down. John tilts his head; a challenge.

“Seb, get out,” Sherlock says tiredly.

“You better watch your step,” he tells John, before leaving, arm still cradled to his chest.

John exhales roughly, and makes a sudden movement that makes Sherlock think he’s about to hit him, but instead he rams his fist against the wall.

“That _bloody_ piece of shit,” he growls, head still bent, the back of his neck bared. Sherlock can see the flush around his ears, his other hand curled up tight. He’s seen Alphas look like this before- angry, ready for a fight _._ John still seems to be recovering.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

John looks up at him, one fist still resting against the wall. “I don’t care,” he answers, his voice is still shaking slightly.

“I didn’t need that. That- display- whatever it was.” Sherlock says it firmly, forces it out.

John looks appalled. He straightens himself, stepping away from the wall. “You think that was a _display?”_

“You don’t have to- all that- I don’t need you to. He wouldn’t have done anything that I didn’t want. And I’m sober now. I could easily keep him off.”

“You shouldn’t need to!” John shouts.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Whatever you have to say, I’ve heard it before. Now do us both a favour and forget about it. Please.”

John doesn’t want to forget it. Sherlock sees it in the stiff line of his shoulders and the heat of his gaze. John sees this in black and white,  and whether it’s the alpha in him or any sort of genuine concern, doesn’t seem willing to drop it.

“I-” he begins to say, then stops. His gaze drops, and he turns his head to look at the empty hallway where Sebastian had been fuming down a second ago. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” he finally says, around a heavy exhale.

“Well, now that we’ve got that out of the way,” he says imperiously, not meaning it though; if John could read people as well as he could he would have known. He’s relieved John isn’t pushing it. John seems to be under the impression that he has to save Sherlock from Sebastian, a lecherous man in an expensive suit who’s trying to seduce Sherlock with drugs. Almost comical.

“I gave him a pretty good shiner, though,” John muses, flexing his hand.

The look of immense, almost ridiculous satisfaction on his face startles a laugh out of Sherlock; he’s surprised at it, but it doesn’t stop him. John looks up from his tanned fingers and grins at Sherlock. It’s brilliant, the way his expression can change from furious and murderous to boyish and free.

“So, you did text me today. While I was with your...brother.” He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. Sherlock has a fleeting thought that he should invite John inside, but he’s momentarily distracted by the mischievous look in his eyes.

“I don’t want to talk about my brother.”

“Alright. We don’t have to. I mean, I wasn’t kidnapped or anything.”

For a moment, Sherlock thinks John is offended, and he has a sudden impulse to call Mycroft up and berate him for ruining everything for him again- but John’s eyes are amused and he doesn’t sound angry.

Sherlock clears his throat. “Um…” clears it again. God, he’s never incoherent. “Do you want to come inside? I mean, we don’t have to stay here. We can go out. You’d prefer going out. ” He opens the door wider, hoping silently he doesn’t look too expectant.  John smiles at him, comfortable, patient while Sherlock babbles. Their earlier argument forgotten, John looks approachable again.

“Yeah, I suppose I should wait to be invited in this time.” There he goes again. _Joking._  It feels odd to be on this side of the conversation, being apart of the joke instead of being laughed at. “We can do whatever you want, really.”

John walks inside, and Sherlock can’t help noticing how differently John holds himself. It’s a bit like Lestrade, nothing like Sebastian or Victor. John takes up so little space that when his nostrils flare and his eyes go dark it’s like flipping a switch. The thought suddenly lights up in his belly; he’s seen John angry, but not aroused. He wonders if it would be any different. Vic always looked the same. He can imagine it though; he's seen enough of it to know that John's eyes would go wide and dark, dark red flush blossoming on his skin, fingers itching to bruise.

He swallows, pushing the image down.

 

 

John is inside his flat, looking around himself, and Sherlock suddenly feels unsure, off balance. He’s never had an alpha in here except Mycroft, and Sebastian had never come here until today. He never allowed them inside, didn’t fuck around with anyone in his flat; Vic preferred his own place or cheap hotel rooms.

But now, John is here, looking curiously at the skull on the mantelpiece, eyes wide and stance a little weary. Has he labelled Sherlock as a freak already? But then...he wouldn’t come back here if he had, would he?

“There’s a skull here,” John comments lightly, turning around to raise an eyebrow at Sherlock.

“A friend,” He shrugs. “Well, I say friend.”

“Do I want to know why it’s here?”

Sherlock smirks. “Nicked it.”

“You stole it.”

“The owner was being tiresome. I was bored.”

“And high?” John asks, and Sherlock doesn’t know if it’s a trick question. But John doesn’t sound mocking. He doesn’t sound like he’s joking, either, though.

“Yes,” he says slowly, thinking of the bag of cocaine hidden under the cushions. “Does that bother you?”

John doesn’t answer. He rolls the skull around in his hand, careful while he seemingly examines it. “Do you want to get changed, or do you wanna go out in your pyjamas?”

 

***

 

Lestrade texts him while he’s slipping into jeans.

 

_If you’re sober, I might have something that you’d like._

 

His thumb hovers over the keys.

 

_You mean you’ve got an unsolved case that’s been languishing on your desk for days because you and your incompetent team are incapable of solving it. Try harder, Detective.. SH_

 

**_You’re a prat._ **

 

_Yes. Your point being? SH_

 

**_You want in or not?_ **

 

_No. I’m busy. I’ll text you later. SH_

 

**_You’re using again, aren’t you_ **

  
Sherlock doesn’t bother with a response, instead slipping the mobile back in his pocket.

 Outside, he can hear John making tea. The sound of it is oddly comforting. He leans against his door and presses his ear to the wood. When Sherlock sees him, he'll be apologetic, holding up two mugs of tea with a bashful smile. Sherlock has a feeling John Watson makes very good tea indeed.

He allows the feeling to uncurl, slowly and gently in his stomach. He allows it because it's been so long since he's felt like this-years, in fact.

Hopeful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reviews are life. Please tell me what you think!


	7. Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is this what you want?" he asks, his voice soft. "This is what you want, isn't it?"

 

 

 

> _Come on, skinny love, just last the year._
> 
> _Pour a little salt, we were never here_

 

 

 

John would be lying if he’d said the drugs didn’t bother him.

Of course they bothered him. The first time he’d met Sherlock was when he was so high on cocaine that he’d fallen right into John’s arms. He hadn’t stayed there for very long; granted, but John didn’t want a comatose, unwilling Sherlock anyway.

Seeing Sherlock now, it was difficult to think he could be any other kind of person; the person he’s looking at now, bright eyed,  a little bashful- he doesn’t strike him as someone self destructive. But that’s what he is, and despite John’s ever increasing fondness for him, when the sleeves of his shirt pull up, he can’t help his gaze from dropping downward to skate over the track marks and bruises.

It doesn’t help that Sherlock is not particularly self conscious about it; he doesn’t make any move to cover his wrists. John wonders if Sherlock is aware of it, whether it’s a subconscious challenge on his part: _so what?_

“You don’t like this place,” he finally says.

Sherlock looks at him over the rim of his mug, and John can see his mouth pull up in a wry smile.

“How could you tell?” He puts the mug down, soft pink tongue darting out to lick the corner of his lips.

“You’ve been tapping your foot incessantly,” John points out. “I know you’re the smart one, but I’m not an idiot. Do you have something against coffee shops?”

“I’m impressed,” Sherlock says, leaning forward; his slender fingers steeple against his mouth, elbows on the table. In someone else it would have seemed flirtatious. Sherlock barely skirts the line, but he doesn’t seem to be trying to be coy. He cocks his head to one side, his eyes following something behind John. “No, I don’t like public places in general. Coffee shops are the worst; they’re boring, they’re tedious, and they’re dull. I enjoy coffee. I don’t enjoy being forced into drinking this over priced rot for the price of a conversation.”  
John laughs; he can’t help it. Sherlock seems honestly nettled, the smirk on his face has melted into more of a scowl, as he surveys the denizens of the shop with barely veiled contempt. His dark brows furrow. It's cute.

“Why’d you let me bring you here, then?”

His gaze sweeps back to John, and he seems to think for a moment before he answers. “I was bored, you were interesting, I was too lazy to make my own coffee. Also, after that testosterone rush with Sebastian, you seemed in need of placating.”  
“I’m not _that_ kind of alpha,” John argues. It seems to be exactly what Sherlock was expecting. This time his smile has teeth.

“I know, I was kidding. You gave me your number, so I allowed this,” he shrugs, takes another sip out of his mug. “It’s not terrible.  My brother would be devastated to know this is what I do with alphas my age.”

“Wasting away at pedestrian joints like this?”

“Exactly.”

"Come on, it can't be that bad. There must be a reason people come here so often," John teases. He wonders if Sherlock appreciates the flirting. Going by the slightly amused tilt of his mouth, he'd have to say yes. Maybe he's just tolerating it, since he's already convinced that John needs _placating._

"Same reason anyone goes anywhere. To get a leg over," he says, assuredly, eyes darting over the customers. "People don't have much else on their minds."

"That's...sceptical," John pronounces, around a rush of breath. Sherlock stares at him, looking worried, as though he's said something wrong. "It's alright," John hastens to assure him. "It's true, I suppose. But I'm not here to get a leg over."  
"Pity. That blonde one over there is interested in you," Sherlock gestures with his cup towards the back of the shop. John turns around- surely enough, a gangly, blonde haired boy is staring back at him. Caught off guard by John's gaze, he starts, but then his lips spread into an easy smile. His fingers wiggle in a little wave. He's sitting alone, near the window, a book on his table. The tips of his blonde hair are dyed brown. Cute-ish. Going by his slender build and the boyish features, not an alpha.

"Not my type," John says, turning back to Sherlock, who has been observing him like a hawk. It's a lie; and Sherlock can tell. He smirks. John would have given the boy his number had he not been with Sherlock. Had he never met Sherlock, in fact.

"Please," Sherlock scoffs. "That's exactly your type. I can pick out two other people, if you like- who you'd go home with on a regular day."

Sherlock thrums with energy. John is fascinated by it- he seems to be characterised by this, sudden bursts of energy between relaxed, languid periods. It's like turning a switch, and John finds it impossibly arousing.

He doesn't even wait for his response. "The red haired barista-" John follows his gaze. Short, curvy, full breasts, nice smile, nice arse. She's busy serving a customer their latte, but when she looks up, she meets John's eyes, and gives him that same soft smile. She turns away just as quickly, to serve someone else. Her eyes are grey. "Mmm. Beta. She's studying some sort of science, if I could guess, I'd say microbiology or marine biology. She plays hockey. Strong thighs. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Do you know women are capable of snapping a person's neck with their thighs? Especially a woman like that, if you know how, that is."

John raises his eyebrows. "How do you know that?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I read, John. I observe. I told you, I'm clever. Now, look at that one with the curly hair sitting with that man in a suit- hmm. They're seeing each other, but she's planning to break it off. I think you'd like her."

Sherlock is right, as usual. The girl has luscious dark hair that falls to her waist,  a slender structure except for her hips, which are wide, tapering down to a delicate ankle. Her skin is dark, to match her eyes, and her lips are now in a pretty moue of disdain, directed at her partner.

"She looks like she'd flip me over and spank me,"  John observes.

"Nope. She'd like you to spank her, though. That's why I said you'd be interested."

Sherlock looks unaffected by what he's just said, his tone devoid of any lascivious or scintillating intent, and John can only stare at him, unable to control his arousal. It's like something being set on fire in his brain. _Do you like being spanked,_ he suddenly finds himself wanting to ask.  _How the hell do you know what I'd like?_ He doesn't. He wants to, though.

"How on earth could you know that?"

Sherlock smiles at him devilishly. "I observe," he repeats.

"You're ridiculous. But I'm not interested in any of them, as interesting as they may be."

Sherlock cocks his head. It's almost unnerving, being on the receiving end of that gaze. Flattering, too. John feels like he's being pulled apart, his deepest fantasies exposed. It makes him want to take Sherlock in his mouth, make him lose that self-possession, that tight control. He's seen Sherlock like that. He wants to see it again; in more consensual conditions, of course. But that image has haunted him ever since. It's not something that you can forget, very easily, especially when Sherlock seems to take every step _not_ to appear that way again.

"Why not?" he asks, honestly sounding curious.

"Because I'm here with _you,_ you great prat."

Sherlock blinks. "I- that's true," he finishes lamely. "Is that why you're ignoring compatible partners? Because you see me as a prospective one?"  
"I see you as someone I'd like to have coffee with."

"Well,  since I don't particularly like wasting away here with this sub par coffee, that's not very flattering," he informs him mildly. John thinks he's serious before his lips blossom into a shy smile. It's lovely.

“Where would you have chosen to go?” he challenges.

The question catches him off guard. His silver gaze narrows, and he stares at John. “Depends….” his voice trails off. He looks down at the table, and his fingers drum a rhythm less tune.  “I don’t do this very often. I have no idea what the other person would expect. I...wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”

“I don’t think you’d disappoint them at all. Surprise them, maybe, like you did with that head in your kitchen,” the reference causes him to blush, slightly. “But not disappoint.”

“Well, I wouldn’t bring them here, for one thing,” he says airily. “Somewhere more...exciting.”

“Like a...what? A pub? A club?”

“No _,”_ Sherlock replies hotly. “And have someone grope me all night? No thank you. Pubs are for pulling. Assuming I’ve already pulled-”

“So we’re describing a date then?”

“ Of course I’m describing a date.”

“This is a date, then?”

Sherlock’s cheeks are flaming pink. John finds it fascinating, how easy it is to make him blush. For a second his thoughts start to stray to more inappropriate directions, but he reins them in. “Like I said, I don’t do this normally,” Sherlock continues in a quiet voice. “So I’m unsure what this qualifies as. You said you hadn’t asked me out.”

“That was because of how frightened you looked when I wrote my number on your hand.”

“I wasn’t _frightened-_ ”

“Why don’t you tell me where you’d take me?”

"So it’s you we’re talking about? Like I said. Somewhere exciting. But I don’t know what people find exciting anymore. I’ve...made mistakes with that sort of thing. So if I perceive a mutual benefit, I just let the other person choose.”

Something bothers John about the way Sherlock speaks- he can’t put his finger on it. What kind of mistakes?  There seem to be layers of sadness in the things he just glosses over, and it makes John want to slow down, hold his hand, ask him to stop at the important bits. Being with Sherlock is so confusing; he talks so much but says so little. _Why are you so sad, Sherlock?_

Instead, he asks, “What mutual benefits?” and Sherlock very simply replies, “Sex.”

This time John can feel his cheeks heating up. He shouldn’t respond this viscerally to someone saying a dirty word- if sex qualifies as a dirty word- but the way Sherlock says it, clinically- lights something up in John’s lizard brain.

“So if you,” he clears his throat- “Ah- if you-”

“If I think I’ll get a fuck out of it, yes, I’ll just let the other person take the lead. But sometimes it’s not just a fuck, is it?” He drains the rest of his coffee. “Hmmm. Sometimes a fuck just isn’t enough,” he seems to look through John when he says it, as though he’s talking about something faraway and distant. “Doesn’t matter though, I don’t do it.”

“You made an exception for me, though,” John replies, trying to ignore the jaded way Sherlock talks about sex.

He smiles, soft, this time. His eyes aren’t as hard as before. “I did, didn’t I?” He looks out of the window their seat is next to. “God knows what possessed me,” he says under his breath, John is unsure whether he’s supposed to hear it or not.

“I have an idea,” he says, suddenly. The sight of Sherlock’s profile, his dark hair made auburn by the sunlight, thoughtful look in his silver eyes, makes John wonder _what was he thinking,_ asking this gorgeous clever man out to _coffee._

***

“I’m not allowed to be here, am I?” Sherlock asks, looking around the laboratory. His eyes are _gleaming._ John grins at the look on his face.

“No,” he replies. Sherlock laughs. His fingers trail over some of the equipment. There's a difference to his stance, suddenly; the languidness is gone. He's alert; interested.

“You do realise you’ve shown me how to break into St. Barts whenever I please.” He looks up from a microscope and shoots John a grin.

“Oh dear, have I created a menace? Shame.”

Molly looks between the two of them. “Actually, I’m the one who brought you both in here. John owes me one.”

“And I’m very glad he did, Molly,” Sherlock replies, without missing a beat, leaning forward over the table, towards Molly. His voice is a baritone rumble. John watches, torn between jealousy and arousal. Molly probably mistakes him for a male beta or an alpha, and her cheeks visibly  turn pink. John has known her since he started term, and while it's charmingly easy to get Molly to do something if you flatter her enough, John has chosen not to. Until today, when the opportunity presented itself.

“It’s- It’s alright,” she blusters, in response to Sherlock's heated gaze and smirk. Is that how John looks, when Sherlock speaks to him? Is that how Sherlock speaks to him anyway- the posture, the careful and calculated invasion of his space; the slight movement of his elegant fingers over metal and glass-  
“I hope you let me in here again, though. It would be such a shame if I could only come here once. I could really do with some of this equipment. I do have access to the university lab, but I don't think I'll get in as much trouble here." He bends himself over, and his arse sticks out in a way that makes it difficult for John to swallow.

“I could- I could get a visitor's pass for you, if you like.”  
Sherlock grins, lopsided, brilliant. “That would be lovely, thank you.” Molly smiles slightly at him, still blushing to the roots of her hair.

"If you need anything else-  
 she mumbles, "Like if you'd like to get a coffee or something-"

John sees this as the point to intervene, and quickly steps in, pulling Sherlock back from Molly by his bicep.

"I think that's enough of that," he says, his voice sounding curt to his own ears. Sherlock looks down at him, the amused tilt of his mouth infuriating John even further

"Are you two friends, then?" Molly asks, putting her goggles back on, realising her chances of pulling Sherlock have decreased.

"I- I suppose," John says slowly, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock. Sherlock raises one back. He's so _annoying._

"Where'd you meet?" she asks.

"John found me at an unsavoury establishment where I got so high I passed out," Sherlock replies brightly.

Molly's eyes widen, as if she's unsure of Sherlock's sincerity. "He's being serious," John cuts in. "And now we're leaving. See you around, Molly."

When John starts dragging Sherlock away from the lab, Sherlock says, "You don't like Molly?"  
"I like her fine," John says defensively. "I don't want her to get the wrong idea."

"What wrong idea?

"I'm sorry, do you want to go back and flirt with her some more?"

Sherlock laughs. "Is that what you call it? Flirting?"

 “What do _you_ call it?”

“Getting what I want.”

 Sherlock is alarmingly close to his ear when he says that; it’s almost a relief when he pushes the door open and they’re hit with sunlight and cold air.

“Don’t go too far to the edge, you might fall,” he warns, watching Sherlock walk out in front of him, openly curious.

“You don’t say,” Sherlock says, his voice hushed. He steps out into the rooftop, his back towards John. His hands are in the pockets of his sweatshirt, and John takes a second to stare without Sherlock knowing that he’s staring. He is still, staring at the sky, and John wants to see his expression, but he doesn’t want to ruin the moment. Sherlock looks like an apparition, outlined against the sky like that. He doesn't seem to be all there, like he doesn't belong- it's odd, John thinks, gaze skating over his form- the delicate shoulders, the slender legs- it's difficult finding a space for Sherlock. He's so...so _different,_ like a puzzle piece that someone didn't make with intention of it fitting in anywhere. Maybe Sherlock feels like that too. John wishes he knew how to ask.

He hadn’t chosen the time, particularly. He’d only thought of bringing Sherlock here because he thought he’d like the view and the wind. He hadn’t expected the sky to look so beautiful, for the clouds to be that gorgeous shade of blue-purple-orange, or the sun to be setting quite like that, at this moment.

“Is this what an ideal date is like, then?” Sherlock finally says, breaking the silence. He doesn’t turn around, so John walks up to him instead.

“I don’t really think it works like that,” he answers. He didn’t know Sherlock’s eyes had so many colours in them, or that his eyelashes were that long, or how sharp his cheekbones really were. Sherlock raises one bushy eyebrow. “Then how do they work?”

“I think- I think if it’s with someone you like, even a boring coffee shop can be interesting.”

Sherlock’s smile is a soft, sad thing, and John wonders what he said wrong. He wants to erase it, wants to say anything, something that would take that look off Sherlock’s face.

“That makes sense,” he just says, and sits down, cross legged. He fiddles a bit with the pocket of his jeans, taking out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

John sits down next to him, and wordlessly takes the cigarette Sherlock offers him. He doesn’t chain smoke like he’s sure Sherlock does, but he’s a college student, he gets stressed like everyone else.

Sherlock lights it up for him, his own cig hanging lightly from his lips. John is transfixed, for a moment, by the pale flesh around the fag. Sherlock’s beauty is nothing short of ethereal, like nothing he’s ever seen before. _Sherlock_ is like nothing he’s ever seen before.

“I would have wanted to shoot up by now,” Sherlock says, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

John feels a sudden flare of panic. “Do you feel like shooting up?”

Sherlock squints, his eyes following a crow flying over them. “It’s not that simple. If you asked me to snort a line with you, I wouldn’t refuse. But-” he flicked some ash off his cigarette. “I wouldn’t go through all the trouble right now. I’m-” he seems to search for a word. “Content. That doesn’t happen very often.”

John meets his gaze, and smiles. Something warm builds up in his chest.  “Well then. We should do this more often, then.”

Sherlock chuckles softly. “I get bored easily, John. You can’t keep milking this rooftop thing, as lovely as it is.”

“Shut up, you said you were content.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock says, and to John’s surprise, stretches, and lays back against the ground, legs drawn up. John looks down at him, and watches Sherlock gazing up at the sky, cigarette glowing in his hand. It’s starting to get dark. He looks- calm. All that restless energy mellowed down to a soft pulse instead. There are shadows nestled in the angles of his face; hiding his features, making his eyes sparkle. John feels like this is a privilege, getting to see Sherlock like this.  

“I play the violin when I’m thinking,” he says, suddenly, as if struck by the thought. “But I haven’t played in ages. I feel like playing now. It’s a miracle you don’t forget how to play an instrument. You can get out of practise, though. I could be rusty.”  
“Why did you stop?” John asks, lying down next to him as well. He stubs the cigarette and chooses to stuff his hands into his pockets. It’s cold. They're not touching, just barely- if John shifted a bit they'd be lying down side by side. He wants to get closer, wants to feel the warmth Sherlock must be radiating now- but he stays put.

“I didn’t stop. I just- started doing other things," he sounds tired. "It got out of control. Now- now it’s hard to go back. Sometimes things just take their course and you have to let them.” Sherlock’s voice sounds distant; John aches to bring him back.

“Can I ask you a question?”  
“You already have,” he points out maddeningly.

John pushes him; it makes Sherlock giggle. “Another one, you git.”

“Go ahead. I may not answer, though.”

“How on earth does a university student afford a flat in Central London?”

Sherlock bursts out laughing. It’s the first time John has heard him laugh like that, and he immediately wants to tease a laugh from him again. When he’s done he asks, “I would think you’d assume something after you’d met my brother.”

“Yeah, your brother is wealthy and dangerous. I don’t see you taking money from him, though.”  
“My parents, too, are wealthy. Not dangerous, though. Not to you. But you’re right. I haven’t taken money from my brother, or them. My access to the trust fund has been denied for almost a year. No, I got the flat at half price from a woman I met in Florida.”

“I can't imagine you in Florida,” John says honestly.

"I didn't imagine myself in Florida either," says, bemused. "My skin doesn't catch the sun and America bored me to tears. I did find a very interesting lady, though. Her husband was on death row for numerous crimes, and I offered to help."

"You got him out of an execution?"

"Oh no," Sherlock says, sounding smug and self satisfied. He watches as he takes a drag from his cigarette. "I ensured it. He was an absolute turd of a human being, used to beat his wife and had affairs. As far as I’m concerned, it was a public service.”

“You’re insane,” John breathes.

Sherlock shrugs, eyes closed. “I’ve been called worse.”

John sits up. “No no- it’s a compliment. It’s- I’m in awe of you, really.”

Sherlock’s eyes spring open. They’re silver lights in the dark. He doesn’t say anything, instead chooses to look at John like he can’t understand him.

“Why do you do that?” he asks, sitting up slowly, one palm on the ground to steady himself.

John looks back at him steadily. “Do what?”

“Compliment me. You called me amazing. Why? I don’t get it. No one’s done it before. You’re not put off by my drug habit,  you haven’t called me a whore, and you’ve brought me here- I don’t- I don’t understand, John, what do you want?”

John’s chest is burning. His entire body is burning, in fact. What does he want?

“I’m not- I’m not used to this,” he continues, weakly, and his gaze drops. “I don’t know what is expected of me."

“What on earth are you talking about?” John demands. His voice makes Sherlock look up in alarm.

“Besides the fact that you’re bloody gorgeous- I won’t lie, I’d be blind to not notice that- you’re- you’re so- I don’t have words to describe it, Sherlock. You’re the most amazing person I’ve met, and I just want to get to know you better, that’s all. You’re dull in comparison to everything else, I suppose. That’s the best I can come up with.”

Sherlock laughs, and it sounds bitter. “I’m not, though. I’m really not.”

“Well, you’re clearly insane,” John decides, and then because so is he, he leans in and kisses Sherlock.

Sherlock freezes, and for a split second John starts to pull away, but Sherlock leans forward, opens his mouth. His lips are cool from the cold air, but the quickly warm up with John's exploring tongue. The way Sherlock's mouth goes pliant and soft is _intoxicating,_ makes him feel like he could do push Sherlock anyway and Sherlock would just go with it. It calls to that tiny alpha   part of his brain which is going _take take take take_

He grips the back of Sherlock's neck and makes him tilt his head for easier access and Sherlock lets out a soft moan that makes his cock twitch.

They're both kneeling, but suddenly Sherlock twists his fingers into John's jumper and pulls him down on top of him, and Sherlock is underneath him, legs spread around his hips and hands on John's shoulders and _fuck-_

He bites down on Sherlock's lip because he just _has_ to see how Sherlock responds to it, and he moans-shifts his hips up to meet John's erection, and John rubs himself against the hard ridge in Sherlock's jeans. He sighs when John sweeps his tongue inside, fingers digging in harder into John's shoulder. It hurts. Had this been his fantasy? He can't remember. It's dark, and he can't see Sherlock's expression properly, but he can feel his warm, willing mouth and the after taste of cigarettes and the way Sherlock's hip shift restlessly against his-

 The warmth is suddenly gone when Sherlock abruptly pushes him back, roughly. "Stop," he chokes out. "Stop, stop."

John feels weirdly off balance. He can hear Sherlock's ragged breathing. "No," he says, more to himself than to John. "Not anymore. Not this. You can't. I- I don't-"

"Sherlock, it's okay," John says quickly, moving away, unease settling on top of skin like sticky sweat. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, we don't have to."

"Fuck, I've ruined this again," he seethes, and runs his hand frantically through his hair.

"Stop it," John says firmly, grabbing his hand. Sherlock starts. "You haven't ruined anything. What are you talking about?"

"Is this what you want?" he asks, his voice soft. "This is what you want, isn't it?"

"No," John says slowly, choosing his words. He feels terrified. What has he _done_? "I- I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."

"Don't kiss me again," he replies, his voice shaking. "I can't. I won't do this, John. I _can't._ I told you. I told you I’m not- I’m not _good at this_ , and I don’t intend to be. I can’t be what you want. I’m not capable of it.”

"You don't have to be anything," John says hurriedly, reaching forward to hold Sherlock's wrists but thinking better of it. "I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry. That was unfair to you, and I'm definitely not trying it again."

Sherlock looks conflicted, miserable. "This is what I do, John. I disappoint people. You know who I am, you've seen what I do. You shouldn't be expecting anything better."

"Someone," John says evenly, holding Sherlock's gaze. "Someone did terrible things to you, and one day, I'm going to murder them. Until then, I want you to know that this?-" he gestures to the space between them, "doesn't have to amount to anything, if you don't want it. We can be whatever you want. Friends, acquaintances, I don't care. I just want to be with you, in any way you'll let me."

Sherlock looks unsure. "We can't do this again. You can't expect it."

"I'm not expecting anything," he says, although it hurts somewhere in the vicinity of his chest while saying it. He has to force the words out. "Whatever you want. I'm serious."

He's fucked it up. He's fucked it up horribly.

"I want to see you again," Sherlock says in a small voice. He sounds so young, John wants to wrap him in his arms, but he can tell that would be an unwelcome gesture.

"So do I."

John wonders how difficult it is going to be, not getting to kiss Sherlock ever again. He shouldn't have thought it was possible, anyway. It's alright though, the need isn't as intense as before now that he knows Sherlock doesn't want to do anything of the kind. He still wants, though. The want is hard to overcome.

"Can we just-" Sherlock waves his hands about vaguely. "Forget about this?"

"Consider it forgotten," John says, smiling.

"You still want to- you still want to see me, even though I don't-"

"You really don't have to do anything to make me stay, Sherlock. Except just be yourself."

The look on Sherlock's face is hard to read; his eyes look impossibly sad, but his lips twitch. He looks down at his hands, and nods slowly, as if resigning himself to something.

Suddenly, Sherlock's phone rings, ruining the moment. Sherlock rolls his eyes, digging his fingers into his pocket to extract his phone. "Lestrade," he whispers furiously. He picks it up, barks out a rough "What?"

John watches as his expression changes from impatience to interest to delight. "I'll give it a look, he finally says. Then he scowls. "No, I'm not high. Here, talk to John-"

"What?" John can barely do anything before Sherlock shoves his phone next to John's ear. "You're being-" he starts, but the person on the phone is saying, "Who's John?" in an equally angry manner, so John says, "I am," instead.

"Why am I talking to you?" Lestrade asks.

"Presumably to assure you that Sherlock isn't high," John guesses. Sherlock sends him a thumbs up, accompanied by a wide smile.

"Well, I don't know who you are," the man said petulantly. "So I can't trust you. Never mind, I'll know when I see him. Tell him I'm expecting him, and if he's off his rocker again, I'm arresting him."

He hangs up. John, suddenly feeling bewildered and unsure, gives the mobile back to Sherlock.

"I'm confused," he admits.

"You should put that on a T-shirt," Sherlock suggests brightly, pocketing his phone. He walks towards the exit. "You coming?"

"Where- where exactly are we going?" John asks, knowing full well he won't get a proper answer.

"You'll see,  
 Sherlock says, disappearing down the staircase.

"I have an assignment due tomorrow," John objects weakly. Everything moves so fast with Sherlock, it's like he barely has any time to think.

Suddenly Sherlock stops, and turns around. He's on a lower step, so their heights even out. They're very close. John would have stumbled and ended up making the second mistake of the night.

"I am taking a...calculated risk," Sherlock tells him, very seriously. His voice is slightly shaking, either from exhilaration or nervousness.

"Okay?" John replies.

"You're a part of the risk," he continues. "I'm risking you."

"Why am I being risked?"

Sherlock leans forward, and very gently, kisses him below his ear. He can smell Sherlock's hair, the dull sugary scent of suppressants, and another spicy, intoxicating scent that hangs about him that has nothing to do with gender. He wants to close his eyes.  "I have absolutely no idea," Sherlock says, sounding incredulous, and then, turning around, he's off like a bullet.

John, still off balance from the press of Sherlock's lips, follows.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently I'm that asshole who updates every six months. Sorry, guys! Hope the John POV helped.


	8. Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock looks down at his hands. They’re covered in old leather gloves, the skin showing at the knuckles, frayed around the edges. They used to be Victor’s.  Sherlock doesn’t quite know why he can’t bear to get rid of them. Perhaps it's a reminder. Don’t get attached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of rape, sexual assault.

 

>   __
> 
> When I was one-and-twenty
> 
>        I heard him say again,
> 
> “The heart out of the bosom
> 
>        Was never given in vain;
> 
> ’Tis paid with sighs a plenty
> 
>        And sold for endless rue.”
> 
> And I am two-and-twenty,
> 
>        And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.
> 
> \- AE Housman 

 

 

By the time he’s outside on the pavement, waiting for a cab, it starts raining. Hardly surprising. It’s a bare drizzle. Sherlock doesn’t like rain, at all. There are too many memories. He hates being caught in it without an umbrella, with nothing to shield himself from the cold. It’s hardly something one can avoid in London, but on the days it rains too hard Sherlock goes back home, unable to tear himself away from the window, watching the rain fall and fall, hitting the glass with the sound of stuttering bullets. But he doesn’t go outside.

He tries to ignore it, now. Even when the water hits his face. He can feel it collecting on his shoulders, in his hair. Soon he’ll be uncomfortably damp. He feels John stand next to him, unexpectedly warm. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s decidedly not looking at Sherlock. In spite of himself, Sherlock smirks.

“I’m calling us a cab,” he says.

“Oh, were you waiting for me? That’s polite.” His sarcastic humour is back, and when he looks up at Sherlock, it’s like he’s saying _I get it. I won’t mention it, if you don’t want me to._ The problem, Sherlock thinks, when getting back from the high, is all this tedious feeling. This one, this exact one that’s rising in him like a tidal wave, threatening to render him absolutely useless.

He clears his throat, looks away, lifts his arm for a cab. “I’m always polite.”

***

“Am I allowed to be here?” John asks. Tedious.

“How does it matter?” Sherlock replies haughtily. “Lestrade needs my help. It’s not as though he’s got a choice.”

Sherlock does notice the hostile glances turned his way. He’s come here twice before, both times he was high off his arse on cocaine, and Lestrade had locked him in his office and told him that this was becoming a ridiculous habit and if he won’t stop, he’ll call his brother.

“My _brother,_ ” Sherlock had gasped, hand clutched to his chest in mock shock. “That’s a low blow, Gavin, even for you.”

“My name’s Greg- which you know very well- and this is for your own good.”

He admits reluctantly that Lestrade seems to be the few people on the planet who have a genuine concern for him. And Sherlock would prefer to keep him, the cases, along with the drugs, are the only things that keep off the dull edge of boredom.

“So, care to explain what we’re doing here? You fell asleep in the cab.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” Sherlock defends, as they step into an elevator. “And I told you. Lestrade needs my help.”

“With a case?” John asks.

“With a case.”

John raises his eyebrows: impressed. He whistles softly, and it’s fascinating. John reacts to him in strange, unfamiliar ways and Sherlock feels...different. Like there’s something bright and flaming in his chest; but in a good way. It’s unfair that Sherlock can’t be normal and allow inevitability to take its course; if he did nothing to stop it; John could have had him against any surface by now. He looks down at his feet, swallows. He has no one to blame but himself, really.

The lift pings open. Sherlock is glad for something to distract him.

 “Sherlock,” Lestrade is standing outside his office, and looks relieved to see him. His hair is messy, he’s been up for the past two nights; his wife’s moved out, again. Clearly.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock nods at him. Sally, leaning against the wall next to him, looks suitably annoyed. Excellent.

“Who’s this?” she asks, gesturing towards John. She appraises him, quickly, one swift flick of her eyes. She finds John attractive, reluctantly so, but her inherent distrust of anyone Sherlock would be associated with prevents her from being nice.

“Sherlock, you know you’re not allowed-” Lestrade starts, but Sherlock quickly cuts him off with a glare.

“John stays or I go,” he replies, firmly. “I need him with me.”

“I swear to God, Sherlock, if you’re high again-”

“Listen, I could go if it’s easier for-” John starts stepping back, but Sherlock grabs his sleeve. He looks down at him, unsure of what to say except, “Stay.”

There must be something needy in his expression. John nods. “Alright.” Then he turns to Lestrade and holds out his hand. “Hi, might as well introduce myself. John Watson.”

Lestrade looks surprised, as though he were expecting John to be some kind of unsavoury criminal. He shakes John’s hand, looking rather pleased. “Greg Lestrade. This is Sally.”

“No thanks,” is her way of greeting John. She doesn’t hold out her and, instead choosing to glare at Sherlock. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, silently challenging her to say anything. There’s a constant tug of war between the both of them. Sherlock doesn’t hate her, not really, he actually respects her, but it’s not as though he’s going to let her know that.

“While I’m interested to know about this,” Lestrade suddenly says, gesturing to the space between Sherlock and John with his coffee mug. Sherlock scowls at him. “We do have an urgent case to discuss.” He opens the door for them. “Get in.”

John follows Sally inside, but before Sherlock can walk in, Greg grabs his elbow, preventing him.

“Les-”

“He’s not- you’re not- this is nothing I should be worried about, right?” His brown eyes search Sherlock’s face, looking for signs of distress, bruises, something that would perhaps tell him that Sherlock was being abused, or taken advantage of. It’s not entirely surprising. Lestrade knows about Sherlock’s lifestyle.

“You should be worried about your receding hairline,” Sherlock rejoins smoothly.

“Sherlock, I’m serious.”

He rolls his eyes. “No, Lestrade, he’s not my pimp, or my drug dealer-, and I’m completely sober. Can we get started? I believe there’s a serial rapist at large.”

“Yeah, alright. Just-” He looks at him meaningfully. “You haven’t been replying to my calls for a while, and now you come here out of the blue with some alpha who looks suspiciously like your boyfriend-”

“What the hell is _wrong_ with you,” Sherlock whispers furiously. “ _Boyfriend_ , how old are you, Lestrade? Twelve? Why are you so interested to know about my sex life?”

“God knows I’d rather not hear a word of your sex life,” Lestrade bites out. “I’m just worried about you, Sherlock, is that so difficult to understand?”

Sherlock sighs. “You needn’t be. Now can you let me go?”

“Just be careful,” he finally requests.

“Always am,” Sherlock lies, and twists out of Lestrade’s grasp, entering the office. He hears the door shut behind him as Lestrade walks in last.

John stands next to Sally, looking at the shiny photographs spread out on his desk. He looks noticeably disgusted. Sally seems to have been discussing the case with him. Interesting.

“...so it’s happened six times, and he goes after a certain kind of victim- most of them are omegas, there are two female betas. But they all look a certain way, if you’ll notice.”

Sherlock knows the details of the case well enough. Lestrade had called him about it two weeks ago, but he hadn’t been in a state to think of anything. He can barely remember whether it was sex or drugs, or both. Lestrade hadn’t called him after that. The stab of regret is uncomfortable, especially with the photographs of the mutilated bodies staring up at him.

He reaches for one. Slender, dark haired, delicately built. Like a bird. There’s gash across her throat, her skirt hitched up around her waist, blood on the inside of her thighs.

The other pictures are much the same, a dark haired boy, he barely looks sixteen, dark hair plastered against his forehead with what looks like blood.

"Is he-"

"A minor. Went to Harrow, was here holiday, to see his grandparents." Sally's voice is dangerously low.

 Sherlock feels bile rise up in his throat. It’s odd, having such a visceral reaction to crime. They all have similar features, pale, dark haired, skinny-

“They look a bit like Sherlock,” Lestrade comments.

“Clearly,” Sherlock puts them away. “I’ll need a list of locations on where the rapes took place, where the victims lived- everything you’ve got, show me.”

 

***

He figures out within the next hour where the rapist should strike next. He’s not even clever, this man, his means of going about it are as dull as ditch water. From the finger prints and the marks on the victim’s body he deduces how tall he would be, his shoe size, and he has a rough idea of what he should look like.

 

He knows, in all probability, he should be looking for his next victim tonight.

 

When he reaches forward for a pen, his hand comes into contact with a mug instead. It’s still hot. He draws his fingers back, blinking at the steaming cup of tea. He looks up to find John sitting a bit further away from him, legs up on the table, texting.

“You got me tea?” Sherlock asks, staring at him.

John’s head flicks up suddenly, eyes wide in expectation. “Welcome back,” he smiles. “And, yeah, figured you might need it at some point of time.”  
“You were...quiet,” Sherlock observes, curling his hand around the cup, bringing it to his lips. Probably Molly’s making, she makes decent enough tea.

“Yeah, well-” John scoots over on his chair, turning around to face him. “I actually did try talking to you. You didn’t reply.”  
Sherlock blinks. Stares. “And that didn’t put you off?”

“No, not really,” John replies, shrugging. “You were busy.”

“I-” Sherlock stares down at his hands, unable to think of anything to say. Was John really here, the entire time- watching him? Staying when Sherlock barely noticed his presence? He swallows, thinking of the implications, what it makes him feel. When he looks back at John, there’s a soft smile on his face.

“I liked watching you. You were doing something important. Helping people.”  
“I don’t,” Sherlock bristles, ready to give him his usual reply. “I’m not doing it to help people. It just- it keeps the boredom away. It serves my purposes.”

John’s expression is disbelieving. “I saw your face when you looked at those photographs. It made you upset. Angry, even.” The pile of photographs just sits a few inches away, turned over so the white sheen stares up at them, vaguely threatening. Sherlock clears his throat loudly.

“Is that what it makes you feel? Angry?”

John looks surprised at being asked his opinion. He follows Sherlock’s gaze until it falls on the evidence. “Yeah,” he finally says. “No one should- they were innocent people, no one deserves that. No one has the right to do that in the first place.”

“Two of the victims were in heat,” Sherlock challenges, looking John in the eyes.

“How the fuck does that even matter,” He rolls his eyes. “It’s still rape.”

Sherlock holds his gaze for a few more seconds, wondering. He has so many questions, and it’s so unfair, that he can’t ask them. His eyes flick over the stubborn set of John’s mouth, the clenched fingers. "You're not- you're different. I don't know why, or how. You just are." Sherlock finds it difficult to hide the frustration in his voice. John looks uncomprehendingly at him, his lips parting slightly. Sherlock wants to lean over and press his mouth against the base of his throat, scent him, god, he makes this so _difficult._

"You sound annoyed," he surmises. "Does it annoy you, me being different?"

"I don't know," Sherlock mutters, turning away from him, staring at the apparatus on the table.

He feels John's hand come to rest at the back of his neck. It's warm, and utterly soothing, and for a few scary seconds Sherlock can't think of _anything._ It's almost as though- this touch is different. Makes his heart beat in six different ways. Sherlock wants nothing more than to melt into the touch, take the comfort that is offered from an Alpha. Is it that bad, to want it?"

"Hey, we don't have to talk about this now. Are you done here?" John's voice is soft.

"Yes," Sherlock replies hurriedly. "I'm done. I think- I know where he'll strike next."

John shifts closer. This makes Sherlock decidedly upset. If John wants Sherlock to concentrate on the case, is this _really_ the way to go about it?

"How can you tell?"

Sherlock glances at him, feeling nervous, all of a sudden. "You want to know?"

"Well, I asked."

 

When he explains it all to John, John’s eyes are wide and his mouth is slightly open. “You got all that...from just the photographs?”

 

Sherlock frowns at him. “Well, Lestrade had finger prints, and a semen sample. And we had a scrap of clothing. This one-” he nudges at the piece of leather with a latex covered finger. “This is from his boot. It’s not that hard.”  
“I-” John shakes his head, seemingly incapable of speech. “That...brilliant. I’ve told you this before, haven’t I?”

Sherlock feels his lip twitch, that same flaming feeling in his chest. “Feel free to continue,” he teases, and watches with satisfaction as John blushes.

“You figured out something an entire police force couldn’t,” John continues.

“That’s unfair,” Sherlock says mildly, taking off the gloves and writing an address on a scrap of paper. He writes a second one on another, stuffs that in his pocket. “Considering that Scotland Yard is full of obnoxious dullards who can’t tell left from right. It’s not much of a leap.”  
John gets up from his stool, coming to stand next to him, glancing at the address. “I know that place. Is that where you think-”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock answers, non committal. Wouldn’t do to tell John quite yet. “Come on, we have to tell Lestrade.”

 

***

“Are you sure?” Lestrade looks up from the address to him. Sally looks infuriated.

“Freak got all that from barely nothing- how the fuck can he be sure?”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock promises. “It’s a stake out. Go do your job, for once, Lestrade. I’m going home.”

“Home?” both John and Lestrade repeat incredulously, looking at him.

Sherlock glances between the two of them, heaves an impatient breath. “Don’t be absurd,” he tells Lestrade. “You have, from your own words, come to the conclusion that John is my boyfriend. Is it really so unbelievable that I would like to spend a quiet evening home with my boyfriend, rather than participate in an extremely dangerous stake out- on the lookout for a rapist who enjoys assaulting omegas that look like me? Come now, Lestrade. You can’t be _that_ dull.”  
He feels John stiffen beside him, his brain probably attempting to work out what Sherlock has just said. Lestrade looks extremely affronted.

“Well, when you put it that way-”

“For God’s sake, Gavin, stop wasting time and go,” he finally barks, and Lestrade mercifully shuts up, folding the paper up and placing it inside his pocket. Sally still looks unconvinced, but moves along when Lestrade pushes her to get going. Sherlock waits until they’re out of sight. He checks his watch. They have roughly an hour to get there. He shuts the door, locks it.

“Boyfriend?” John finally bursts out, turning to look at him expectantly. “What the hell was that?”

“Quiet,” Sherlock says,  turning around and placing a finger on John’s lips. John shuts up immediately, eyes going cross eyed in an attempt to look down at Sherlock's finger. "Sit down," he adds, pushing him down on Lestrade's chair. He looks extremely upset, especially when the chair swivels around a bit. John must dislike such furniture. Sherlock will keep that in mind.

"Now we wait," he informs John, pulling the blinds of the window. John watches in astonishment as Sherlock picks the lock on Lestrade's drawer and extracts a pair of handcuffs. He stuffs them into his pocket. He pats his chest just to make sure the gun is still there.

“For-”

“Shh.”

He pours them both a  coffee from Lestrade’s thermos, which lay abandoned on his desk. He shoves it into John’s hands.

“Sherlock- _what-_ ”

“Drink,” he commands, and raises the scalding liquid to his own lips. Disgusting, he abhors coffee. Never going to have it again.

John looks over at him from the rim of his mug, regarding him coolly. "You're confusing me."

"I do that quite a lot, though, don't I?" Sherlock replies pleasantly.

John's tongue is his cheek as his mouth curves into the barest hint of a smirk. "You seem to enjoy it, keeping me on my feet. Making me ask questions. You must get off on it."

Sherlock cocks his head. "You enjoy it just the same, though, don't you?"

Flirting with John is so _easy._ He makes it so simple, as though it's the only thing that could possibly be expected of it. It's exasperating, and exciting, and Sherlock does not need the distraction right now.

"Sherlock, what are we doing," John finally asks, around an impatient sigh.

 “Waiting for an opportune moment. Which should be about...now.” He puts the mug back on the desk, snatches John’s away from him. Then he grabs John’s wrist, pulling them both out of Lestrade’s office.

“Why aren’t you going with them? Seems like the kind of thing you’d enjoy. The running around part.”

Sherlock wordlessly hands him the slip of paper from his pocket, with the address written on it. John walks beside him, scanning the hastily scrawled words.

“This isn’t- this is different, isn’t it? You told them to go somewhere different.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies. “Because there’s too many of them and they're not going to catch him, with all their fumbling around.”

John doesn’t say anything until they’re outside, perhaps trying to make sense of what Sherlock’s told him.

“Hang on-” John holds up a finger, and then roughly brings Sherlock’s arm down before he can flag down a taxi. He looks...angry. “You’re not seriously telling me you’re going to catch this rapist by yourself, are you?”

“Be quiet,” Sherlock whispers, and clamps a hand over John’s mouth. “We’re not out of earshot yet.”

John wrenches Sherlock’s hand away. He’s about to say something, but remembering what Sherlock told him about someone listening, instead grips Sherlock around the wrist and drags him away from the building, pushing him against a wall in the alley next to it. It nearly knocks the air out of him.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he says, furiously. “We’re just two people and this isn’t some incompetent robber- it’s a sodding rapist who has a penchant for victims who look an awful lot like you!”

Sherlock sighs, rolling his eyes. This is tedious. While John’s concern for him is flattering, it’s acting as an impediment at this moment and therefore, undesirable.

“You’re worried about me,” he deduces.

“Well, _yeah,_ ” John replies, throwing out his arms. “A police force is one thing, two unarmed blokes is another.”

“You have to trust me,” Sherlock responds urgently. “This is the most expedient way of doing it. There’s a reason I’m faster and _better_ at this, John. Because I work alone, and I get it done. You have to trust me. And I’m not unarmed. I have you. Now will you come with me? Because if you don’t, I’ll go alone.”

John looks at him incredulously, and then actually laughs. It’s a short huff; not bitter or sarcastic, rather...indulgent. And surprised, at himself. He’s obviously finding himself agreeing to it, albeit for the only reason that if he doesn’t, Sherlock will go off on his dangerous mission alone. Sherlock finds his gut warming up at the thought, that John would willingly walk into a dangerous situation, (unarmed) because he thinks Sherlock would need the protection.

God, he wants to kiss him again.

“Fine, let’s go,” John says. “Doesn’t seem like I’ve got a choice.”

“And you won’t be unarmed either,” Sherlock adds, reaching inside for the gun. John’s eyes widen.

“What the hell,” he whispers. “Did you steal this?” _Steal,_ that would require actual effort. Not his fault the officers at NSY have the attention span of a two year old.

“Yes. From an off duty officer, don’t worry. Now put it in your jacket, quickly. You know how to shoot, don’t you?”

“Couldn’t figure that out yourself?” John challenges, stuffing the gun inside.

Sherlock smirks, “You were around sixteen, maybe eighteen. Before you went to university, at any rate. You nicked your father’s army issue, taught yourself in the woods. Beer cans?”

“Coke bottles,” John corrects, eyes sparkling.  “Come on.”

 

They take a cab, and Sherlock tries to bury the thoughts running around in his head that aren’t related to the case.

“So do you just plan to, what, know exactly where he’ll be and clock him?”

“More or less,” Sherlock assents. “There will be some waiting involved. I know when I’ll see him.”

“You better not- just don’t put yourself in danger unnecessarily,” John trails off, looking out the window.

“You’re worried about that. You’re worried I’ll do something stupid, without thinking.” Sherlock looks down at his hands. They’re covered in old leather gloves, the skin showing at the knuckles, frayed around the edges. They used to be Victor’s.  Sherlock doesn’t quite know why he can’t bear to get rid of them. Perhaps it's a reminder. _Don’t get attached._

“You say that like it's surprising,” John murmurs. “Is it that unlikely, that I’ll worry about you?. I can already see it happening in my head. You have the self preservation skills of a goat.”

The analogy teases a laugh out of Sherlock. “I’m sure even a goat would protect itself, if it thought it was in real danger.”

“Not until the very last moment,” John points out. “Just- just don’t leave me in the dark, okay? I’m here. I have a -” he suddenly remembers the taxi driver- “I’m not unarmed. I don’t mind being your security, just remember I’m here.’

“My security?” Sherlock can feels a grin teasing at his mouth. “My...security.” Is that how John sees himself? As a guard? It should irk him- this implication that Sherlock needs protecting. But it doesn’t. It’s...flattering.

“Yeah, well, you can’t shoot, can you?” John smiles crookedly at him. It’s always flirtatious, that smile. Always makes Sherlock feel like he’s being chatted up, even when John isn’t trying.

Sherlock can’t help his cheeks from heating. His entire face feels flushed. He wants desperately to reach over, and-

“We’re here, gents,” the cab pulls to a halt, shaking him out of it.

The case. There’s a _case._ Stupid.

He steps out of the cab, hearing John grumbling behind him about having to pay.        

 

The cab speeds away and John comes to stand next to him, and they silently go inside the seedy pub. Sherlock usually avoids places like this if he can help it, although they are statistically better places to pull. How dull, how predictable of the rapist to weed for victims here. Sherlock has little respect for people who take sex by force,  he has had plenty of experience with alphas thinking their entitlement was enough to get them anything they wanted. That, coupled with this man’s sheer unoriginality, makes Sherlock rather bored. Murder is always more preferable. It’s the thought of that omega girl, lifeless blue eyes, mouth lying slack, dark hair around her like a halo that reminds him why he’s here in the first place. It wouldn’t do to tell Lestrade that, though.

 

“Sit next to the window, over there,” Sherlock pushes John forward with a hand on the small of his back, leading them to the tiny booth in the corner. It gives them a good view of the entire pub. He slides in, taking off his sweatshirt. He can feel his hair stand up on the end due to the friction. He tries to pat it down.

“Can’t help thinking of Sally and Lestrade at another pub, on their fake stake out,” John mutters, edge of a smile on his lips, as he shrugs out of his coat. He’s wearing a dark blue button down underneath, open at the collar. Sherlock clears his throat, looking away from him and at the denizens of the pub instead.

“They’re not too far,” he reassures him. “I am not unaware of the advantages of having fully trained personnel at hand.”

The pub has plenty of slimy alpha males looking to get a leg over. But none of them are who they’re looking for. Sherlock checks his watch. Half past seven. Too early yet.

“You can order something, if you like. We’ll be here for a while.” Sherlock takes out a cigarette from his pocket and lights it, welcoming the sudden rush of nicotine.

There’s already a cloud of smoke hanging over the pub, he doesn’t see how one would hurt.

John looks at the fag disapprovingly. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Would you rather I shoot up?”

“That’s unfair,” John says accusingly, getting up. “I’m getting us some beer.”

“None for me, no alcohol during a case.”

“Very professional of you,” John smiles, and goes towards the counter. Sherlock stays, smoking his cigarette. He brings his wrist to his mouth. He can feel the honey-rosewater scent beginning to waft around the edges of the dull sugary fragrance of suppressants. It would smell different to other alphas or betas, of course. He doesn’t reach for the extra strip he keeps in his wallet. In the next hour, he should smell entirely like an omega. He flicks a tongue out to lick experimentally at his pulse. Hmm. He can taste it on himself. He always tastes different when he’s not on suppressants. He wonders if John can tell. Probably.

He takes out his phone and puts John on speed dial, and stuffs it back in his pocket. John comes back with a lager. Predictable.

“So,” he says, slipping in next to him. “How do you tell a rapist from anyone else? Because everyone here looks like a potential suspect.”

“Usually,” Sherlock says, around an exhale. “It’s the ones you don’t expect. Most of them are creeps, but no one has the propensity for rape. Minimal sexual assault, yes. That one, for example. I would stay clear of him.” Sherlock points to an overweight alpha male, downing his whisky like water. A woman sits next to him, clearly uncomfortable. He keeps trying to chat her up, touching her thighs every thirty seconds.

“Why isn’t she-”

She finally gets up, throws her drink in his face and walks out. Someone whistles.

“He’d have followed her. But he’s too drunk, look at him- he can barely get his words out.”

While John is looking at the man, trying to see what Sherlock sees, Sherlock tests his theory by slipping two fingers into his mouth and then wiping them at the back of his neck. Moisture on the glands should get them to release more of the scent.

As if on cue, Sherlock can see John’s nostrils flare. He looks at him, just for a second; a slightly confused expression on his face. He turns away, blinking rapidly.

“So- uh. Huh.” He drinks almost half his lager. Sherlock hides his smirk behind his cigarette.

They don’t talk much for the next hour, mainly because Sherlock snaps at him twice to keep quiet. Soon, Sherlock spots him. He fits the bill-tall, cropped dark hair, muscular body. There’s a scar under his ear. Even from here Sherlock can tell it’s from a sharp fingernail. He watches him order a beer, and instead of sitting on the stool, he leans against the counter and surveys the room.

“John,” he says smoothly. “Get me a beer, would you?”

“Didn’t you say no alcohol?”

“I changed my mind. Get me a beer, please.” He schools his expression into a comical, exaggerated mockery of a kicked puppy face.

John rolls his eyes, but predictably, leaves to get him his beer.

There’s already a line near the counter. John should be there for at least seven minutes. Sherlock stubs the cigarette in the ash tray, grabs his jacket, and then, snatching a tissue from the stand on the table, dips it into John’s bottle. He dabs it around his neck. He messes up his hair as well. He checks his reflection. He looks drunk, he smells like an omega, and he bites his lip hard, to get some colour back into the pale flesh.

John is at the other end, he shouldn’t be able to see him. Sherlock walks up to the front, just barely giving his walk the effect of a limp; tipsy, not dead drunk yet. Enough to want another drink.

When he comes up next to the man, Sherlock doesn’t look at him. He waits. He can feel the heat of his gaze, uncomfortable, unsettling, and rather threatening. He can feel it linger on certain parts of his body.

“Hello,” he says pleasantly. Sherlock turns around, his eyebrows barely raised, a hint of surprise.

“Hello,” he replies. Smiles. It’s a lazy smile. The smile of lowered inhibitions.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Oh yes, please,” he drawls.

He pretends to be looking somewhere else when the drink slides up next to him. He discreetly takes a sniff, pretends to slip. Lets some of it coat his lips. He licks it up, all the while looking into the man’s eyes. They’re dark, and now fixed at his neck. He can smell it, now. So can Sherlock.

“I do have to get home, though,” he says, looking at his watch. “I’ve got an assignment to finish.”

“You’re a university student, then? Where do you study?” The set of his jaw is hard, his eyes already burning a hole into Sherlock’s. There’s a smile on his lips, though, but it’s a cold one. The smile of a python before it devours you whole. It barely reaches his eyes.

“UCL. Chemistry. Nice meeting you, and thanks for the drink. Bye.” Sherlock shrugs into jacket, and makes to leave. He can feel the rush of breath, the anger in the man’s posture. He’s bought him a drink and now Sherlock’s _leaving_? Inconceivable.

“Let me get you a cab,” the man says, fingers clasping around Sherlock’s wrist. It makes disgust coil in his stomach. He’s smiling at him- a facial expression designed to put him at ease but instead makes him want to throw up all over his feet.

The man doesn’t want someone willing to spread their legs. He wants someone to struggle against him, to fight. Sherlock looks at the scratch marks all over his neck, and then thinks of the ones between that girls’ legs, bleeding still, when they found her. He thinks of this cretin clawing at her legs until they part, sinking into her while she screams. And then murdering her so his crime dies along with her.

“I think I’ll go on my own,” he says, and wrenches free of his grasp. He can’t see John. Ignoring it, he makes his way through the pub and finally, outside. He’s being followed, of course. Sherlock stuffs his hands into his pockets, stands at the curb as though he’s waiting for a cab.

“You shouldn’t go home on your own, in this state,” the voice comes from behind him. Sherlock turns around and stares into a pair of dark grey eyes. He’s never noticed them properly before. He wonders if there’s something inside of him that warns his victims. Wonders when exactly they thought of running. How far they got.

A hand closes around his bicep. Sherlock takes a step back. He moves forward. “Let’s take a walk,” the man whispers into his ear. Sherlock swallows, letting the man’s hand slip down his arm, caress his bare skin.

He lets the fear show on his face; widened eyes, the biting of his lip; it predictably draws him. God, this was so _easy._ He’s not even intelligent, this man. He doesn’t even rape because no one is willing; he rapes because he wants to _rape._ It’s disgusting, and reckless, and Sherlock usually has grudging admiration for criminals, but not him. He leaves a predictable trail of clues behind him, right down to the pub he’d be at when he scouts for his next victim.

“Where are we going?” he asks softly.

“Why don’t you follow me and we’ll decide as we go along.”

They start walking. The man should be thinking that his drug has begun to take effect by now. Sherlock stumbles, once or twice. He feels an arm wrap around his waist, dragging him along. They don’t even go too far from the bar when he’s suddenly pushed up against a wall. There are rubbish bins lined up against the brickwork, a car that’s almost in ruins hides them from view.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says, already working at his belt. Sherlock lets his expression grow slack, as if he’s barely aware of what’s happening. He slips his other hand into his back pocket. Dials 9.

“Who-”

“You think I’m fucking stupid, you cunt,” there’s a swift hand at his throat. “You think I didn’t fucking notice you staring at me. Either you want me to fuck you or you’re with the police. Either way, I’m going to kill you.”

“I have no clue- what are you talking about,” he murmurs, sliding down.

The man picks him back up, holds him up more firmly there. There’s hot breath in his face. He can feel rough hands around the skin at his waist. “You think I’m going to have you and then kill you? Fucking whore. I’ll kill you first.”

The hands at his throat start squeezing. Sherlock hadn’t considered this. He had thought the man would try to have sex with him, and in the ensuing struggle, Sherlock would use the time on his hands until John came to help. Well then, the rouse will have to get over, then. He reaches back and knees the man in the crotch. He lets go, with a cry of pain, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to run.

Of course, this is what the man had been waiting for. The street they’re on is empty; taking him somewhere crowded would just ruin his entire plan. He has to take him somewhere the man thinks he’ll have a chance.

He starts to take a turn into a darkened backstreet, outside what looks like an abandoned meat shop. But before he can get any further, the man fucking tackles him; throwing himself on top of his body and bringing him to the ground. Sherlock feels his ankle shatter; shit, that hurt. He considers screaming; but that would bring more people and he needs then man to stay here until more help arrives. So he struggles.

He rams his elbow into the man’s eye, which makes him snarl in fury and land a punch on his mouth. Sherlock feels the blood, warm and wet and quite a bit of it- he punches him again, this time on the other side. Sherlock’s vision darkens, spots dancing in front of his eyes. There's a third punch, right on his nose. He can feel the sickening crunch of  bone, blood spilling out. He reaches out blindly, hands clawed to swipe at the man’s face; draw blood- he manages a bit before the man grabs his wrists and pushes them up and against his chest. He’s straddling his hips now; his expression difficult to read in the dark. Sherlock can see the white of his teeth. His smile is a snarl.

“You fucking think you’re so smart- just an omega- whore- in the end-” he twists his wrists together, Sherlock can feel his bones grinding. Sherlock tries dislodging him from his hips but he’s heavy- and strong. He can feel his erection against his thigh. "Going to murder you- fuck your corpse-"

The man brings his hands to his throat again- squeezing. Sherlock’s mouth lolls open in an attempt to drag in more air.

Shit.

The grip is gone when a gun comes out of nowhere and whacks the man on the side of his head. Sherlock shudders, take a great breath of air as he rolls over, coughing. He spits out some blood, and when he wipes a trembling hand over his mouth it comes back red and shiny.

“You fucking idiot,” he can hear John seethe behind him, which is probably meant for him. He turns back, squinting, seeing John send him a quick glance, full of rage,  before taking the opportunity and whacking the man on his head again. The rapist falls over, hands shielding his face, spluttering. “What the hell-”

Sherlock hurriedly moves out of the way, scrambling to the wall. "Knock him out," he instructs. "Knock him out before-"

John hastily aims his gun at the man’s head while he’s still on the ground, hand held to his temple. There’s a smudge of blood there. His eyes look dazed.

“Don’t,” John says softly, when he tries to stand up. “Don’t you fucking dare, you piece of shit.”

John’s blue eyes are burning. Sherlock has never seen him like this before. That testosterone match with Sebastian, this morning- god, it seems like years ago- that was _nothing,_ compared to this John.  It's like holding a matchstick next to a forest fire.

John brings the gun to the man’s mouth. Suddenly Sherlock is worried that he’s actually going to shoot.

“John, don’t-” he begins.

The man tries to get up, make a swipe for John's midsection, but John brings  a hand to the back of his head and rears him back roughly.  He swallows hard, eyes still unfocused, his cheeks flushed. He shoves the gun harder into the man’s mouth.

“John-” Sherlock says again. Just as quickly, John  rears the gun back and hits him on his temple again. This time the man’s eyes roll back in his head and he falls to the ground in a heap.

John is panting. Sherlock stares as he slips the gun into the waistband of his jeans. His hair is dishevelled, cheeks flushed from the fight. Sherlock takes a deep breath, and tries to get up, but it proves too much for him and he stumbles. John's attention is immediately dragged from the body on the ground and he kneels next to Sherlock, cupping his face, holding him up against the light.

“What is it? Are you alright? Hey, look at me. You okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes out.  His throat feels raw and chafed. He can feel the bruises around his eyes and his cheeks, and he moves his hand up to rub at the skin. John watches the movement of his hand, swallows.

“Look at your face. What did that suck fucker do?” runs a thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone. “You look like shit. You _idiot._ What were you thinking?”

“I-”

John rips a section from his shirt and holds it up against his bloody nose. "Keep it there," he orders, guiding Sherlock's hand against it. The frayed ends of shit hang loosely.. Most of John's face is in shadow, but he can see his eyes. Bright. Worried. For a moment, Sherlock forgets how to breathe.

“You’re an idiot. You could have- god, I don’t even want to think about it. Call Lestrade. Where else are you hurt?”

“Just my face and my leg,” he tells him.

John exhales loudly, looking down at his feet, still holding Sherlock up. He shakes his head. Sherlock can see the ghost of a smile around his lips.

“You.re insane,” he whispers, looking up at him again. "God, you're insane, Sherlock, I fucking lost my shit when I realised you were gone."

"But you came," Sherlock insists. He's smiling, but John probably can't see his mouth.

"Like the fucking cavalry," he agrees.

They meet eyes and Sherlock thinks John is going to kiss him, and do you know what, he’s going to _allow_ it, because he’s honestly never, ever, met someone like John before and is that the adrenaline talking- shit- he wants to keep him forever, God- would John let him keep him forever?

“Next time,” he pokes a finger into Sherlock’s chest. “Next time you _tell me what the fucking plan is.”_

“I’ll tell you what the plan is,” Sherlock agrees quietly. Then he reaches into his pocket and hands John a pair of handcuffs he’d nicked from Lestrade's office. “Cuff him. I’ll call Lestrade.”

“Can you stand on your own?”

Sherlock places a hand against the uneven brickwork and shifts the pressure to his other leg. “I’ll manage.”

John lets go of him slowly, watching Sherlock’s face for any signs of discomfort. When he’s not holding him anywhere, he waits as though he expects Sherlock to drop down right there.

“John I’m fine. Cuff him before he wakes up.” He leans heavily against the wall, obediently holding up John's ripped shit to his face. He doesn't know if it's helping.

“Fine. You’re fine. Your face looks like a slab of meat,” he grumbles, but still bends down to the body, cuffing him almost violently.

“Should just shoot him. Would be doing a public service,” he continues muttering, propping  his body up against a rubbish bin. His head lolls to the side.

“Lestrade’s on his way,” Sherlock says, leaning heavily against the wall and  sending him the text. He can only imagine Lestrade's expression. Hilarious.

“I hope he arrests you,” John says darkly, standing up. There’s a smudge of blood under his eye. Sherlock can’t help reaching forward shakily and wiping it off. It doesn’t go away entirely; there’s a pinkish stain on the skin, around the small cut.

John is very still. “I don’t fancy you dying so soon,” he says softly. He stands closer to him, holding him by the hips, supporting his weight. He notices Sherlock’s undone belt and there’s a flash of something dark and ugly in his eyes. Sherlock lets him do it up again.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock hand slides down to cup the side of his neck. The skin is warm, he can feel John’s pulse. It jumps. He shouldn’t be doing this. John’s hand closes over his, and Sherlock feels his heart drop down to his feet. He’s never felt like this before, not with anyone, this need to put John in a box and protect him from everything, or the need to climb into him and never come out.

Police sirens make them jump apart. Sherlock swallows, clears his throat loudly. “Oh, look, it's the police,” he says lamely.

“To arrest you, I hope,” John repeats. There’s still  a flush down his throat as he pulls Sherlock away from the wall, shifting them so Sherlock can rest his weight on him.

“Lestrade needs me too much to do that,” Sherlock reminds him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next: slow burn? what slow burn?


	9. Scotch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I probably would have shot him, if he'd done anything to you. I was pretty close to it. I  would have. I almost did. I didn't care if I'd get arrested. I just wanted him dead."

 

 

>  My nerves are turned on. I hear them like
> 
> musical instruments. Where there was silence
> 
> the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this.
> 
> Pure genius at work.Darling, the composer has stepped
> 
> Into fire. 
> 
> Anne Sexton, _The Kiss_

 

Lestrade is still shouting at him, even when the rapist is safely bound inside the car. Sherlock can hear him swearing. According to his ID, his name is Craig Michelson.

“...could have gotten yourself killed, or worse- you absolute idiot!” he continues. John sits by his side, but an awful lot of good he's doing, not even contributing to the conversation. Sherlock sends him a pleading glance, but he just pretends to be more interested in his hands, examining his fingernails like Sherlock isn't having the absolute _worst_ time.

“I caught you a serial rapist,” Sherlock defends, turning to Lestrade, gesturing to the car, and the angry criminal inside of it. “Surely you should be grateful.”

“You should be grateful I’m not arresting you for nicking a firearm,” Lestrade counters angrily, bringing his voice down to a furious whisper. “I’ll be expecting it cleaned and returned to my office tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock grumbles.

“That man is dangerous- and sadistic- look what he did to your bloody face. You think you’re bloody invincible-”

“No one is invincible,” Sherlock says hotly, and Lestrade glares at him.

Sherlock leans his head against the back of the ambulance where he’s seated. He only has half sight, what with the cast covering the majority of his nose. They'd given him some local anaesthesia and set it, but before they could work on his ankle he'd told them to fuck off and leave him alone.

His head hurts, but in a good way. Sherlock feels exhausted, and a little fuzzy, as though he's floating. Possibly the remnants of adrenaline. He finds himself falling sideways, leaning against John's side. His head tilts to rest against his. John's arm immediately comes to wrap around his shoulder. There- that's good. That's _excellent._ The touching. He wants more of it. He wonders if he should ask him. If he likes it as much as he does. If it's even _allowed._

 “I’m very tired, Lestrade,” he continues, nuzzling John’s shoulder. He smells divine. “John will take me home now. Goodbye.” Sherlock's eyes are closed, and John's scent fills his nostrils. It's strangely comforting, almost as though he's known that smell all his life. Achingly familiar, almost.

There are a few seconds of silence during which Sherlock supposes Lestrade is fighting a losing battle against indulgence and fondness. It’s a human deficiency, but it works well in his own favour.

“Come on, I’ll take you both home in a police car, up you get.” The words are said roughly, as though Lestrade is still trying to hold on to some vestiges of authority. Poor Lestrade. He feels him grab his arm, pull him up and away from John’s warmth. John's fingers brushing at his wrist, and then gone.

He has to hold on to the crutches the paramedics gave him, although it would have been preferable to hold John for support. It’s just a sprain, he should be fine in a week. But they’ve still saddled him with this monstrosity. It reminds Sherlock of the time he had climbed a tree to save the cat and he’d fallen out of it. The cat had fallen down with him, but predictably landed on its feet. He had come tumbling down like a baby bird, incapable of flying. He feels a bit like that now, free falling without end.

“Thanks, Sherlock,” Lestrade finally says, while the three of them walk towards his car. “Stupid method, but still, you caught him.”

“It was the most efficient and expedient method, and yes, I caught him. No need to state the obvious.”

“Just say you’re welcome,” John scolds him, tapping Sherlock's head lightly.

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock obeys grudgingly.

Lestrade’s greying eyebrows shoot up into his hair. “I’ve never heard you say that.” He blinks at John. “Is this because of you?”

John exhales roughly through his nose, grinning. “You know him. Do you think anyone is capable of making him do anything?” Which, Sherlock admits, with a momentary rush of affection for John, is very true.

“No, I suppose not,” Lestrade assents, and opens the door for the two of them. “Can you help him inside?”

John looks up at him, smirking. "Sure," he says, while his gaze is still locked on Sherlock's. He can see Lestrade step inside his car out of the corner of his eye. John holds the crutches and gently puts a hand on Sherlock's skull, helping him to duck inside. "You're under arrest," he says, giggling. It's a stupid joke. But Sherlock finds himself laughing.

"What an appalling sense of humour," he murmurs, sliding into the seat. His eyes feel heavy. John's weight settles against him, and it's lovely, being able to feel someone else's warmth next to you. It's a feeling Sherlock is not familiar with; being so comfortable with another person.

"Baker street, then?" Lestrade catches his eye in the mirror. It's a questioning gaze. It's Lestrade making sure that John is safe, that Sherlock is safe with him- because- bafflingly enough, Lestrade feels a ridiculous need to ensure Sherlock's well being. Him and Mycroft make a patently overwhelming, annoying team. Mycroft seems to have found the benefit of having a police officer check up on his wayward brother from time to time.

"Yeah," Sherlock replies, and smiles.

Lestrade looks satisfied, a soft expression entering his eyes. The ignition is turned on and he starts to drive.

***

He'd probably fallen asleep because someone is shaking him awake, too soon. He makes a muffled noise of protest and turns over, burying his nose further into leather and- ouch. The pain jerks him awake and eyes still half closed he rubs at his nose, looking behind him, blinking sleepily at John.

"Idiot," John says, with a fond expression. Sherlock's vision is still blurred around the edges. He has to blink a few more times for John to slide into focus.

"Get out, both of you," Lestrade says, too loudly.

"You should like a trumpet," Sherlock tells him accusingly, reaching for the door handle. His entire body feels stiff. "perhaps that's why you make such an incompetent police officer. Oh sorry, _detective inspector,_ I mean."

Lestrade doesn't bother with a reply. Presumably because he's too idiotic to come up with one. Sherlock opens the door, not prepared for the blast of cold air. John's already outside- when did that happen?- holding out a hand for him. His hair looks like it's glowing from the lamplight. Sherlock would like to stay there for a while, appreciating him. Instead, he shakes himself out of it and attempt to slide out of the car in a non-ridiculous fashion. It is difficult.

"I'm not an invalid," he grumbles, taking his hand anyway. John pulls him out of the car easily, with one hand.  Sherlock loses his step and stumbles against him just like he'd wanted to- hmm, John really does smell good. Sweat and pheromones and- hah. He shouldn't be thinking of that at all. John's arm comes to rest around his waist.

"Don't you want your crutches?" he asks.

"No, they're tedious. Take me upstairs. Goodbye, Lestrade. See you the next time you need help with a case a five year old could solve."

"Sod off," Lestrade finally says. Lovely, how original. Then he speeds away.

Sherlock does actually need help walking, though. John's holding on to his crutches for him. It's a teensy bit self serving, this- he wants to hold on to John rather than those monstrosities of aluminium. They make their way through the door, just in time, actually, to see Ms Hudson putting flowers in the tiny foyer.

She's unmindful of their entrance, humming to herself as she shifts the flowers around in their vase. Peonies, violets, daisies. They're all quite pretty. She only looks up when John kicks the door shut behind them with his foot.

"Oh, my," she whispers, fingernails at her mouth. "What in the world happened to your face, young man? And who is this?" she looks disapprovingly at John, her lipsticked mouth turning down at the corners. Presumably she thinks John is the cause of his injuries.

"We caught a serial rapist, Ms. Hudson," he  answers brightly, whilst she walks up to him, fluttering her hands about his face, eyes concerned and worried. She has a habit of fussing over him. Sherlock finds it...not altogether unpleasant. Sometimes she's away for days at a time, he has no idea where she goes- has a brief idea, of course, but nothing concrete. Sometimes she makes him tea, sometimes beats him with her broom when she finds him high.

"What an awful business," runs her hand soothingly over his hair. "Very brave of you, dear, but it certainly does sound very stupid. Did you get in a few punches, at least?" She straightens the collar of his shirt.

"John did," He pushes John forward with a hip, holding on to his wrist instead. "This is...erm...my friend, John Watson. John, my landlady, Martha Hudson." John looks at him for a moment, acknowledging the shift in their relationship with a glance and a slight smile.

"Would shake your hand, but they're kind of full at the mo," he answers. He smiles at her, charmingly. It still has a hint of the flirtatious. Ms Hudson giggles, cheeks dusting with pink.

"Well aren't you a sweet young man. Bit of a change, to be honest," she shoots Sherlock a look, which means _different from your coked up rich fuckbuddies._ Sherlock shrugs.

"Anyhoo," she turns away, pinches John's cheek. "I'm glad you both are alright. Sherlock does have a habit of getting himself in trouble. Shall I take these up, then?" she reaches forward for the crutches.

"That would actually be great, Sherlock's quite heavy," Sherlock manages to look affronted, but he's secretly glad. He feels rather...proud of John. Glad that Ms. Hudson is impressed. She smiles, taking the crutches and leaning them against the staircase.

"I'll send them up tomorrow morning, now you both go up and have a bit of a rest. Goodnight, Sherlock," she leans forward and pecks him on the cheek, and turns around to return to her room.

"Nice landlady," John comments, once the door is shut. He wraps his arm more securely around Sherlock's waist. "Do you think your ankle can handle the weight or should I-

"What, carry me? Don't think that will be necessary." John ducks his head and stifles a smile, perhaps remembering the first night they met. Sherlock knows John must have carried him upstairs. Pity he wasn't awake to experience it.

"Well then. Let's get started."

They make their way up somehow, with Sherlock having to stop a few times because of the pain in his ankle, which flares up suddenly when he misbalances the weight of his body. John grips him tighter then, waiting patiently until he can manage the rest. Maybe he should have waited for the medics to give him a bandage. Well, too late for that.

Once they're inside, John quickly takes him to the threadbare seat by the fire, and gently lowers him down, holding on to his ankle and placing it on the coffee table. Sherlock grunts a bit from the discomfort.  John gets down to removing his trainers, and then his socks. Sherlock barely has the energy to stop him. Then John drops into the sofa himself, with a loud exhale of breath.

"I'm exhausted," he murmurs, leaning his head back. Ms Hudson must have lit the fire for them at some point in the evening, because he can hear the cackling of the fire. Sure enough, he sees it, bright and orange and very, very warm. He stretches a bit, sliding down further. John's eyes are closed; Sherlock finds his gaze drawn to the mild rise and fall of his chest, his tanned fingers spread out along his thighs.

"You enjoyed it," Sherlock derives, and John looks up suddenly at him. Sherlock finds his mouth tipping into an all-out grin.

"You're ridiculous," John rejoins, but he's still smiling.

"A ridiculous man who gave you the most fun you've had in weeks." Sherlock tries to cross his legs but the pain from the movement lances up his leg and he feels a tight breath leave his body.

"Shit, I forgot about that," John springs into action, reaching forward and placing a tentative hand on his ankle. "We have to bandage that, and an ice pack, if possible. Do you have any of these things?" He looks rather hopeful.

"I- might," Sherlock inclines his head. "Somewhere in the medicine cabinet. I'm sure you know where it is."

John blushes, steadfastly not looking at him as he makes his way to Sherlock's bathroom. He turns around to look at him as he goes. He can hear him rummaging about, the shift of tablets in their cardboard packaging. It feels...different. Sherlock turns away, looking at the fire instead. It cackles, burning, the flames rising and falling. Sherlock has never known quiet domesticity before, with anyone, really. Not even when he was a child at home. It's comforting. The noise in his head is suspiciously quiet.

"I'm surprised you have these, actually," John's voice shakes him out of his introspection. He comes to stand in front of him, holding up some kind of medicinal elastic wrap. It must have been Mycroft, stocking him up with things he doesn't need. Or does, actually. Sherlock narrows his eyes.

"Do you know how to use it?"

John gives him a withering look as he sits down on the table, bringing Sherlock's foot on to his lap with a bit more force than necessary. "No, of course not. Not like I'm studying to be a doctor, or anything."

"Kidding," Sherlock lets his head fall to the side, smiles lazily at John. John's fingers are clasped gently around his foot, warm against his cold skin. They press gently. John's eyes are unfathomable, as he presses more insistently, moves his hand up to Sherlock's ankle, rubbing the point of injury with soft touches.

"Joh-" Sherlock starts, the name ending in a soft groan. His eyes shut of their own accord, and he can feel John's hands moving up, around his shin. Two hands now- one rubbing hard circles into the arch of his foot, the other at his heel. He's good- too good. Sherlock bites his lip to prevent another embarrassing sound from escaping. "You're good at this," he says instead. His voice comes out in a breathy whisper.

"I'm good at a lot of things."

He says these kind of things so _easily,_ Sherlock thinks in wonder. With no idea of how it affects him. It makes him open his eyes to stare at John. John's gaze is bright and blue, burning into his. His hands move up his foot, carefully avoiding his ankle, spreading warmth into him. His mouth twitches as he looks at Sherlock. His eyes trail down to somewhere on Sherlock's throat. They're heated.

"You- you smell different, now. I thought it was the other omegas at the bar. But it was you," his seems to say the words with a little difficulty, almost as though there are invisible hands at his throat. There's a ruddy flush along the skin. He skirts his gaze along Sherlock's shoulder instead, dropping down to some other point on his body.

"It wouldn't do for me to smell like anything else besides myself. The entire point of it was to myself irresistible, a target impossible to ignore." Sherlock answers. John does something particularly _lovely_ to his foot and it makes him suddenly boneless, eyes fluttering closed again. "What does it smell like?" he finds himself asking.

John is silent for a few seconds. He's thinking- trying to figure out Sherlock's specific fragrance, and that- that does things to Sherlock. "Cinnamon," John finally says, gaze meeting his. "Roses. Er. It's a bit..spicy? Makes my throat burn- but in a good way. It's different, comes and goes. I've been smelling it all evening. Makes it...hard to concentrate."

Hard to concentrate? He opens his eyes and looks at John, eyes trailing down his throat, the dip of his collarbones before they disappear under his shirt. Sherlock wonders what that entails. Was he thinking about him the same way Sherlock has been, all evening? Has John, too been seized by a sudden, all consuming desire to shove Sherlock against the nearest surface and snog him senseless? Plagued by ridiculous questions like how he looks while aroused, what arouses him- it is impossible that John has been arrested by the same thoughts, or that his mind has been lingering on every touch shared, that John would be cataloging the very shape of his smile, or the curl of his hair, the curve of his neck-

He clears his throat.

"Imagine what it must be like for us," he counters. "Your lot doesn't even _have_ suppressants."

John opens his mouth to argue that yes, they do, but Sherlock interrupts him- "Hardly any of you use them. Not unless you're a doctor, or a soldier- or a policeman. You know what I mean. My point is, we smell you all the time."

"What's it like?" John asks. He sounds curious, rather desperately so. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. Sherlock is caught by the motion of it. He swallows, turning away, sniffing discreetly just to remind himself of it. It's indulgent- all of this. Everything. Sherlock feels a twinge in his chest but he smothers it mercilessly.

"Scotch. Butter. Smoke. Something warm. Hard to explain."

_Something I'd like to roll around in, cover myself with, maybe have inside me,_ he thinks, but doesn't say.

"Hmm," John stops massaging his foot, and Sherlock battles the urge to whine. Instead he feels the hush of the material of the bandage as John unrolls it. He's achingly gentle as he lifts Sherlock's foot up to wrap it from below. It takes him barely a minute- it's tight, but not too much, it feels secure. Sherlock feels the pain abate a bit.

"How's it feel?" he asks, his hand still curled possessively around his foot.

"Better."

"Okay," John says, with a kind of finality, and with a last squeeze around Sherlock's foot, starts to get up.

Sherlock is suddenly seized with a moment of panic. John is _leaving._ The adventure is over, and John has taken what he wanted and now he'll leave and _go away_ and Sherlock will be alone. The noise in his head will be back again and he won't be able to sleep, and the idea is unfathomable, the hours and hours of quiet until Sherlock injects something into himself to make it go away. John will leave, and it's doubtful he'll come back, and Sherlock can't _bear it._

His hand seems to move of its own accord as he grips John's wrist. "No," he rasps. He is pleading, he realises. He wants John here so badly, he doesn't even care.

John frowns as he looks down at him, his gaze skids over Sherlock's fingers stopping him. "Sherlock...I have to-"

"No," Sherlock repeats. And then, "Stay."

John opens his mouth to respond but Sherlock continues speaking, unsure if his words even make sense. "It's logical. It's past midnight and it'll be a nightmare getting a cab at this hour and it's quite cold outside and you only have that jacket. You staying the night is the most rational alternative and it's not as though it's your first time." He takes a breath.

John doesn't say anything for a few seconds, and it's agony, watching him _think._ "You want me to?"

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't, would I?" Sherlock responds, exasperated.

John's smile is unsure. "You--you're not just- out of a sense of obligation..."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "As though I would do anything because I thought I was _obliged_ to, John."

John lets Sherlock tug him back towards him a bit, like a needy child. He finds the idea of not touching John at this moment ridiculous.

"Alright, I'll stay," he promises.

"Good."

John's responding laugh is _lovely._ It's the best thing he's heard in years, and he wants to bottle it up and keep it somewhere safe. John's hand cups the underside of Sherlock's wrist, and it's brilliant, how even a little bit of physical contact can make Sherlock's skin burn in the most unfamiliar of ways.

Sherlock finds himself tugging John even closer. John shouldn't even _allow_ him- god-

"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?" John's free hand comes to rest beneath his ear, thumb brushing against his cheekbone. "I know you're...well. You. But you know. You can tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"That you don't want to be alone. It's okay to say it, sometimes."

Sherlock frowns at him. John thinks he's in need of comfort because he was assaulted? He wants to laugh. Ridiculous. It was his _plan_ to be assaulted. He decides not to remind John of it.

"Do I need a reason to want you to stay the night?"

"No, I suppose not." John's hand moves to his nape, buries itself in the thick curls. John's eyes skate over his face, lingering on his broken nose, his black eyes. John's gaze darkens, his jaw clenching. "I probably would have shot him, if he'd done anything to you. I was pretty close to it. I  would have. I almost did. I didn't care if I'd get arrested. I just wanted him dead."

"I know," Sherlock's voice is a hushed whisper. He lets go of John's wrist only to clutch as his collar. He doesn't know why he does it.

John's mouth is very close to his. He can feel the rush of breath, warm, lovely. His gaze drops to John's throat, where his Adam's apple bobs skittishly as he swallows. Sherlock's spidery fingers gently touch the skin there. It's flushed. John is bent over him, one hand supporting himself on the armrest, one hand at the back of his head.

Sherlock's finger dip into the vee of his shirt, feels hair tickle the tips. John exhales sharply, and the grip in his hair tightens. It makes heat pool in Sherlock's gut. He pulls more insistently.

"Sherlock, I-"

"Yes," Sherlock answers immediately. He doesn't know what he's agreeing to. Only that, when John's mouth slants over his he knows this is _exactly_ what he wanted. John's lips are wet, and chapped, and Sherlock opens his mouth immediately to let his tongue in, and he wraps his arms around John's shoulders, trying to get closer- god this position is awkward as hell.

"Hang on," John breathes against his lips, and he feels arms dig in under his waist- John is lifting him up- what? Sherlock tightens his grip around John's shoulders, and he has to wrap his one good leg around John's waist to avoid falling off. But John's arms seem to be enough, because the next thing he knows, John is spinning them around and then landing with a heap on the chair instead, Sherlock is in his lap, one leg curled next to his thigh and his injured foot trailing on the floor.

"Fuck," he breathes, and John moves forward to catch his lips again.

"Does it hurt? Your foot?" he asks.

"Shut up," Sherlock says by way of reply, cupping his hands over John's ears. "And kiss me."

"Sherlock, I don't- the painkillers-"

"I am in my senses. Do what I tell you."

John grins against his mouth, bites down on his bottom lip, hard. Sherlock's moan sounds ridiculous even to his ears, but John must like it, if the way he grips Sherlock's hips is any indication. Sherlock sighs, licking at John's mouth, and rolls his hips against John's crotch.

"Want to- let me-" John's mouth moves to his neck- and he's- scenting. It makes Sherlock's skin flare, his fingers find their way to John's shoulders, dig in to the skin- why won't John take off his _shirt-_ Sherlock wants  to-

John's tongue licks a stripe down Sherlock's neck. "John, _ah-”_ His hands slip under his shirt, cupping the swell of his ribs. Sherlock quivers.

Sherlock is certainly not new to sex. He has had sex with several people, but he’s never _felt_ so much before, never felt the need to take off John’s clothes so he can lay on top of him, feel the heat of skin against his own. Never been so...out of control.

He doesn't even mind when John grabs both his wrists and bends them behind his back, restraining him. It makes him want- fuck, what does he want?

"You smell- fuck- you smell _amazing_ ," John continues to nibble at his neck, one hand holding his arms back, one at his hip, encouraging Sherlock's grinding effort. He can feel John's substantial erection against his crotch- and the wetness seeping into the back of his jeans. If John would just slip his hand and swipe his fingers against him he would be sopping wet-he's sure John would like that, him dripping writhing, just for him-

"Didn't know you could talk like that," John says, a hint of laughter in his voice, and Sherlock's eyes widen. Did he say all of that out loud?

"I-"

"Shh," John quietens him, the hand at his hip reaching up to slip under his shirt again. The skin on skin contact makes him gush even more, he can feel the muscles in his arse contracting, searching for a cock. John swipes  a hand over his chest, tweaks a nipple.

"Oh _god,_ " Sherlock moans, burying his face in John's neck. "Please, god, do something-"

"What do you want? Tell me what you want," John shifts them so Sherlock is upright, he catches the lobe of Sherlock's ear between his teeth. It makes Sherlock squirm in his lap, and John's grip at his wrists tighten. It's impossibly arousing, being held like this, Sherlock thinks he'd like to ask John to tie him down and fuck him- oh _fuck-_ John is fondling him through his trousers, hand achingly gentle and Sherlock doesn't _want_ gentle, he wants John to bite him, pull his hair- claim him- god why won't he do that?

"I- I don't know," Sherlock answers honestly, bites his lip. John kisses him again. His nose hurts, and the skin around his eyes hurts, but he can't- doesn't want John to stop.

"That's okay," John says softly. "That's fine." And he continues kissing a trail down Sherlock's neck, stopping to mouth at his collarbone. Sherlock's skin feels cold and hot all at once, and he doesn't know what to _do_ with himself, so he's glad John holds him in a way he doesn't have to move. Gingerly, he lifts his leg up so he's properly straddling John's lap, thighs on either side of him. It helps him to bear down on John's cock.

"Shit," John hisses, and bites down on Sherlock's neck. "Does it hurt? Anywhere? Are you alright?"

"God, _yes,_ " Sherlock reassures him, and tries to shift his hips so that he can feel John's erection against the cleft of his arse. "Need- something. Give me something, John, _please-_ "

John lets go of his wrists, which allows Sherlock to wrap his arms around his neck again. They're sore, and it feels _lovely._ Perhaps John would leave some more bruises for him, and Sherlock would feel them even later, know that John held him there, so tightly that people would know someone had touched him. He can feel John's fingers at his jeans, unbuckling his belt, slipping the jeans down. He lifts his hips, cries out when there's too much weight on his ankle. John kisses him quiet, putting a warm hand on his foot to massage it. "Alright?" he asks.

"Yes," Sherlock replies.

When his jeans are around his thighs, John places a hand on the swell of his arse, squeezes. Sherlock takes a shaky breath, his lips against John's but neither of them doing anything. He shudders when John places one finger against his wet hole. "Can I- Can I-"

"Yes, _please,_ " Sherlock begs, and when John slips a finger inside he practically keens. It's so good, it's _so good,_ and he bears down a little, squirming, he can hear himself pleading but god know what he's pleading for. John is kissing him again, and there are two- three- fingers inside him now. He can't even kiss him back properly, his mouth lies slack, and John's tongue sweeps inside of him, and he imagines that's probably how John fucks as well- without restraint, barely giving him time to breathe. The thought makes him whimper, and another gush of wetness probably coats John's fingers by this time. He's literally fucking himself on them, his cock pressed up against John’s abdomen, making soft noises that are little more than cut off vowels.

John finally pulls away, breathing hard, and they rest their foreheads against each other, breath mingling. Sherlock restlessly chasing orgasm on John's fingers, John's fingers fucking him open like he'd like to fuck him next. Would John bend him over, or would he take him like this, Sherlock riding his cock? Or does he like his partners on their backs, looking into their eyes, watching their mouth fall open when he hits the right spot- Sherlock takes a shaky breath. He hasn't ever had sex like that. He'd like to, though. He really would.

"God, you're going to make me come," he says helplessly. Like John is a storm, a hurricane, a force of nature, and Sherlock is caught in the force of it, being swept away without a trace.

John's kiss on the corner of his mouth is soft, feather light. "That's the idea," he breathes, and laughs.

Sherlock giggles too, then, and oh, this is different. Do people laugh during sex? He doesn't know. Hasn't really had the opportunity to explore _that_ possibility. Sex is...very different, with other people. Not like this. Sherlock has never been so aroused before, never needed an orgasm so badly, not even with Victor.

Sherlock's eyes meet John's and they're dark, barely a ring of blue around the pupils. His hair falls over his forehead and the set of his jaw is hard-possessive.  He looks at Sherlock like he's something that should be his, and Sherlock finds that there's nothing he would like more than to belong to him.

"John," he says, breathlessly, unable to say anything else.

"You- you are the most beautiful thing I have ever _seen_ ," John tells him, his voice a husky, raspy thing- and pulls him closer, up and against his cock. Sherlock has never had anyone tell him that before. He wants to say something equally poetic, something profound, worthy of what John makes him feel but he can barely think. John's fingers, his mouth, his cock slotting against his- _god._ Sherlock imagines somewhere, there are volcanoes erupting, lava burning everything around them to a crisp. That's what he feels like now, as though he's on fire, and he doesn't want it to _stop._

"God, don't stop," he echoes, and he feels John's hand at his hair again, gripping the curls, wrenching his head to one side so he can kiss his neck, softly. It's at odds with John's rough hands.

"Beautiful," he repeats, and Sherlock _knows_ that's he's going to spontaneously combust, any moment, now.

"John, _please."_

John crooks his fingers suddenly and Sherlock shudders, body going rigid as the waves crash. " _Ah...ah..."_ he grips John's shoulders, hard, burying his face into his neck, teeth finding the taut skin of his neck...biting. John's arm around his waist brings him closer, his own cock against Sherlock's, friction, heat-

Sherlock comes over his shirt, feels the wetness slip out of his arse in thick streams, he's crying out John's name..once...twice- until he's finally still, his orgasm wrenched out of him, leaving him feeling limp and exhausted.

He doesn't know how long he stays there, it's dark and quiet here, face in John's shoulder. Doesn't think he'd want to move, ever. Cocooned in someone else's warmth, Sherlock finds it...intoxicating. Like a drug. Better than any drug, in fact.

"Hey," John lifts his head so he can look into his eyes. John's hands are cool against his flushed skin. He runs a finger over the corner of his mouth, dragging a lip down. His gaze skirts around the skin, there is a gentle triumph in it. Like Sherlock is a conquest he's made. Many people have looked at Sherlock like that. This is the only time he hasn't minded.

"You have sensitive skin."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sherlock is surprised at his own voice. It's hoarse, like he's had a cock down it, but he _hasn't-_ which suddenly reminds him- how selfish of him! He starts to slide down John's lap even as John is saying something about his skin being pink-

"Sherlock, what are you-"

"Let me- let me do something," he explains, but John grabs him.

"Don't be ridiculous," he says, sounding a bit angry. But his eyes are soft as they regard Sherlock. "It's not a barter exchange, don't be stupid."

"But I- I didn't do anything. And you're still-" he cups his hand around John's cock, which yes, is still quite hard.

"I can manage that," John defends, moving his hand away. "I don't need it, you know? What we did right now..was pretty great."

Sherlock finds himself shaking his head, mouth opening to protest. "You don't- you don't want me?" He feels curiously rejected. He hates how small his voice sounds. Horrified, he finds tears prick at the corners of his eyes. _What-_

"Sherlock-"

"I can. Let me. I'm good at this."

John's mouth falls open, and he pulls him back up more insistently.

"But, John-" he doesn't know what to say.

He's never- never just- not just _him._ He feels like there's something he's missing, as though John is just a second away from demanding something else from him, and he won't be able to give it, and why won't John let him?

"Sherlock, I really don't- of course I want you, don't be stupid-but, later. Okay? I promise. Later. That was just for you, and for me, I won't deny that-" he smiles. "But you don't have to. I promise."

He wraps both arms around Sherlock's waist. He imagines he's quite sticky everywhere, but John doesn't seem to care. "I like doing that. I like- watching you come undone. It's very, very good. So good I don't need anything else."

Sherlock's chest hurts, his _heart_ hurts. He knows that he will feel differently about everything tomorrow. But he feels dizzy, and light headed, and really quite wonderful as of this moment, so he ruthlessly suppresses the insistent voice in his head that's saying _You don't deserve him._

"I came all over your shirt," he comments, looking down at John's ruined button down.

"I have others." The curve of John's mouth as he smiles is fond, sweet. Quite different from the predatory smile he had on his face each time Sherlock was moaning a few seconds away. Sherlock was right- it _is_ like flicking a switch. Fascinating.

John helps him up then, seats him on the couch while he pulls up his pants and jeans. "You look worn out," he remarks, pushing back Sherlock's thick hair from his forehead. "Let's get you into bed."

"Hmm," Sherlock hums lazily, stretching. His bones pop.

"Come on, up you get," John pulls him up in one swift move, and oh- he's being carried like a bride. He instinctively wraps his arms around John's neck.

"W-what are you doing?" he stammers. Sherlock feels a whoosh in his stomach. Butterflies, he believes the expression is. Certainly doesn't feel like butterflies though. Feels like something much larger. Gargantuan, perhaps.

"It's too much- of a bother to walk to your room like it's a three legged race," John breathes out. Sherlock is quite slender, but he's by no means very light, so it's not unexpected that it takes John some effort. He pushes Sherlock's bedroom door open, and lays him down on the bed gently, ploughing him with pillows behind his head.

"Pyjamas?" he asks, hovering above Sherlock's face.

"I'm not an _invalid,_ " Sherlock defends hotly. "They're over there, on the back of the chair." John finds a pair of discarded pyjamas and his silk robe, and throws them at his head. It slides off his face in a hush of silk, and Sherlock scowls at him.

"No need to do that, either," he adds crossly, and starts to pull his shirt off over his head.

 When he's shirtless, he can see John's gaze fall down to his chest, heated, that same edge of possessiveness. Sherlock feels something submissive in him want to present himself on all fours, suddenly.

"John-" he starts, not sure what he'll say next.

He's not prepared for John suddenly crossing the room in one fluid step, placing one hand at the back of his neck to lift his head up. He kisses him again, and it's quick, hard, the slice of teeth, the thrust of his tongue. By the time he has the sense to reach for John, pull him closer, maybe right on top of him, John pulls away. They're both panting. John's eyes are dark. Sherlock can feel the blood rushing in his ears. His head is spinning.

"Sorry," John says, breathlessly,

"Don't be," Sherlock replies.

"I should, ah-" he straightens up, clearing his throat. He gestures to the stains on his shirt.

"Yes," Sherlock agrees, and watches rather unhappily as John leaves the room.

Sherlock's fingers are trembling when he reaches for his pyjamas, god, his entire body feels like he's burning and it's nothing like heat.

By the time he manages to clean himself and put on his pyjamas, Sherlock feels hollowed out. He throws the soiled clothes on the floor, and curls up on the bed, burying his hands underneath the pillow. At some point of time, he hears the door creak open and the sound of footsteps. John's voice at his ear. "Sherlock, I think I should go-"

"Stay," Sherlock tells him, voice scratchy from sleep. "Please."

"I-" he opens one eye, and his vision is blurry, but he can make out John's conflicted expression. Tedious.

"Stay here," he repeats. He reaches a hand out behind him and pats the space on the bed next to him. "here."

"Sherlock, I can't-"

"Why not?" Sherlock argues. "Convenient. It's a big enough bed. Shut up and sleep here."

John disappears after that, and Sherlock considers getting up to check that John hasn't left him, the idea makes him panic again- but soon he feels the bed dip. He doesn't turn around to check if it's John. Instead, he feels the comforter pulled up over his body, tucked up around his chin. The lamp is clicked off.

Sherlock drifts.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! this'll be last update for a couple of months, because of some real life shit that will get me very busy. I will try to update asap, though! And thank you everyone who has been commenting, and clicking that 'kudos' button and sending me positive feedback and constructive criticism! (every comment counts) This fic would not have got this far without you. <3 I don't visit tumblr these days (much) but you can always send me a message here :)


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